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THE LAST MAN.

BY

THE AUTHOR OF FRANKENSTEIN.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

Let no man seek
Henceforth to be foretold what shall befall
Him or his children.

Milton,

VOL. II.
SECOND EDITION.

LONDON :

HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

185^6.

PR

■5397

V, a

Shackell, Arrowsmith, and Hodges, Johnson's-court, Fleet-street,

i I

THE LAST MAN.

CHAPTER I.

DuKiNG this voyage, when on calm evenings
we conversed on deck, watching the glancing of
the waves and the changeful appearances of the
sky, I discovered the total revolution that the
disasters of Raymond had wrought in the
mind of my sister. Were they the same waters
of love, which, lately cold and cutting as ice,
repelling as that, now loosened from their frozen
chains, flowed through the regions of her soul
in gushing and grateful exuberance ? She did

VOL. II. B

a THE LAST MAK.

not believe that he was dead, but she knew that
he was in danger, and the hope of assisting in
his liberation, and the idea of soothing by tender-
ness the ills that he might have undergone,
elevated and harmonized the late jarring ele-
ment of her being. I was not so sanguine as
she as to the result of our voyage. She was not
sanguine, but secure ; and the expectation of see-
ing the lover she had banished, the husband,
friend, heart's companion from whom she had
long been alienated, wrapt her senses in delight,
her mind in placidity. It was beginning life
again ; it was leaving barren sands for an
abode of fertile beauty ; it was a harbour after
a tempest, an opiate after sleepless nights, a
happy waking from a terrible dream.

Little Clara accompanied us; the poor child
did not well understand what was going for-
ward. She heard that we were bound for Greece,
that she would see her father, and now, for the
first time, she prattled of him to her mother.

On landing at Athens we found difficulties

THE LAST MAN. 3

encrease upon us : nor could the storied earth or
balmy atmosphere inspire us with enthusiasm or
pleasure, while the fate of Raymond was in jeo-
pardy. No man had ever excited so stiong an
interest in the public mind; this was apparent even
among the phlegmatic English, from whom he had
long been absent. The Athenians had expected
their hero to return in triumph ; the women had
taught their children to lisp his name joined to
thanksgiving; his manly beauty, his courage,
his devotion to their cause, made him appear in
their eyes almost as one of the ancient deities of
the soil descended from their native Olympus to
defend them. When they Spoke of his probable
death and certain captivity, tears streamed from
their eyes ; even as the women of Syria sorrowed
for Adonis, did the wives and mothers of Greece
lament our English Raymond — Athens was a
city of mourning.

All these shews of despair struck Perdita with
affright. With that sanguine but confused ex-
b2

4« THE LAST MAN

pectation, which desire engendered while she was
at a distance from reality, she had formed an
image in her mind of instantaneous change, when
she should set her foot on Grecian shores. She
fancied that Raymond would already be free,
and that her tender attentions would come to en-
tirely obliterate even the memory of his mis-
chance. But his fate was still uncertain; she
began to fear the worst, and to feel that her
souPs hope was cast on a chance that might
prove a blank. The wife and lovely child of
Lord Raymond became objects of intense interest
in Athens. The gates of their abode were be-
sieged, audible prayers were breathed for his
restoration ; all these circumstances added to the
dismay and fears of Perdita.

My exertions were unremitted : after a time I
left Athens, and joined the army stationed at
Kishan in Thrace. Bribery, threats, and in-
trigue, soon discovered the secret that Raymond
wa3 alive, a prisoner, suffering the most rigorous

THE LAST MAN. 5

confinement and wanton cruelties. We put in
movement every impulse of policy and money to
redeem him from their hands.

The impatience of my sister's disposition now
returned on her, awakened by repentance,
sharpened by remorse. The very beauty of the
Grecian climate, during the season of spring,
added torture to her sensations. The unex-
ampled loveliness of the flower-clad earth — the
genial sunshine and grateful shade — the melody
of tlie birds — the majesty of the woods — the
splendour of the marble ruins — the clear ef-
fulgence of the stars by night — the combi-
nation of all that was exciting and voluptuous
in this transcending land, by inspiring a quicker
spirit of life and an added sensitiveness to every
articulation of her frame, only gave edge to the
poignancy of her grief. Each long hour was
counted, and ''He suffers''' v^as the burthen of
all her thoughts. She abstained from food ; she
lay on the bare earth, and, by such mimickry of
his enforced torments, endeavoured to hold com-

b THE LAST MAN.

munion with his distant pain. I remembered in
one of her harshest moments a quotation of mine
had roused her to anger and disdain. " Perdita,*"
I had said, " some day you will discover that
you have done wrong in again casting Raymond
on the thorns of hfe. When disappointment has
sulUed his beauty, when a soldier's hardships
have bent his manly form, and loneliness made
even triumph bitter to him, then you will repent ;
and regret for the irreparable change

" will move
In hearts all rocky now, the late remorse of love."*

The stinging "remorse of love*" now pierced her
heart. She accused herself of his journey to
Greece— his dangers — his imprisonment. She
pictured to herself the anguish of his solitude ;
she remembered with what eager delight he had
in former days made her the partner of his joyful
hopes — with what grateful affection he received her

* Lord Byron's Fourth Canto of Childe Harolde»

THE LAST MAN. 7

sympathy in his cares. She called to mind how
often he had declared that solitude was to him the
greatest of all evils, and how death itself was to
him more full of fear and pain when he pictured
to himself a lonely grave. "My best girl,"" he
had said, "relieves me from these phantasies.
United to her, cherished in her dear heart, never
again shall I know the misery of finding myself
alone. Even if I die before you, my Perdita,
treasure up my ashes till yours may mingle with
mine. It is a foolish sentiment for one who is
not a materialist, yet, me thinks, even in that
dark cell, I may feel that my inanimate dust
mingles with yours, and thus have a companion
in decay.'' In her resentful mood, these ex-
pressions had been remembered with acrimony
and disdain ; they visited her in her softened
hour, taking sleep from her eyes, all hope of
rest from her uneasy mind.

Two months passed thus, when at last we ob-
tained a promise of Ilaymond'*s release. Con-
finement and hardship had undermined his health;

8 THE LAST MAN.

the Turks feared an accomplishment of the
threats of the EngUsh government, if he died
und^r their hands; they looked upon his re-
covery as impossible ; they delivered him up as
a dying man, willingly making over to us the
rites of burial.

He came by sea from Constantinople to Athens.
The wind, favourable to him, blew so strongly
in shore, that we were unable, as we had at first
intended, to meet him on his watery road. The
watchtower of Athens was besieged by in-
quirers, each sail eagerly looked out for; till on
the first of May the gallant frigate bore in sight,
freighted with treasure more invaluable than the
wealth which, piloted from Mexico, the vexed
Pacific swallowed, or that was conveyed over its
tranquil bosom to enrich the crown of Spain. At
€arly dawn the vessel was discovered bearing in
shore ; it was conjectured that it would cast an-
chor about five miles from land. The news
spread through Athens, and the whole city pour-
ed out at the gate of the Piraeus, down the roads^

THE LAST MAN. 9

through the vineyards, the olive woods and plan-
tations of fig-trees, towards the harbour. The
noisy joy of the populace, the gaudy colours of
their dress, the tumult of carriages and horses,
the march of soldiers intermixed, the waving of
banners and sound of martial music added to the
high excitement of the scene; while round us
reposed in solemn majesty the relics of antient
time. To our right the Acropolis rose high,
spectatress of a thousand changes, of ancient
glory, Turkish slavery, and the restoration of
dear-bought hberty ; tombs and cenotaphs were
strewed thick around, adorned by ever renewing
vegetation ; the mighty dead hovered over tfieir
monuments, and beheld in our enthusiasm and
congregated numbers a renewal of the scenes in
which they had been the actors. Perdita and
Clara rode in a close carriage ; I attended them
on horseback. At length we arrived at the har-
bour ; it was agitated by the outward swell of the
sea; the beach, as far could be discerned, was
covered by a moving multitude, which, urged by
b3

10 THE LAST MAN.

those behind toward the sea, again rushed back
as the heavy waves with sullen roar burst close
to them, I applied my glass, and could discern
that the frigate had already cast anchor, fearful
©f the danger of approaching nearer to a lee
shore : a boat was lowered ; with a pang I saw
that Raymond was unable to descend the vessel's
aide; he was let down in a chair, and lay wrapt
in cloaks at the bottom of the boat.

I dismounted, and called to some sailors who
were rowing about the harbour to pull up, and
take me into their skiff; Perdita at the same
moment alighted from her carriage — she seized
my arm — " Take me with you," she cried ;
she was trembling and pale; Clara clung
to her — " You must not,'^ I said, " the sea is
rough — ^he will soon be here — do you not see his
boat ?" The little bark to which I had beckoned
had now pulled up; before I could stop her,
Perdita, assisted by the sailors was in it — Clara
followed her mother — a loud shout echoed from
the crowd as we pulled out of the inner harbour ;

THE LAST MAN.

11

while my sister at the prow, had caught hold of
one of the men who was using a glass, asking a
thousand questions, careless of the spray that
broke over her, deaf, sightless to all, except the
little speck that, just visible on the top of
the waves, evidently neared. We approached
with all the speed six rowers could give; the
orderly and picturesque dress of the soldiers on
the beach, the sounds of exulting music, the
stirring breeze and waving flags, the unchecked
exclamations of the eager crowd, whose dark
looks and foreign garb were purely eastern ; the
sight of temple-crowned rock, the white marble
of the buildings glittering in the sun, and stand-
ing in bright relief against the dark ridge of lofty
mountains beyond; the near roar of the sea, the
splash of oars, and dash of spray, all steeped my
soul in a delirium, unfelt, unimagined in the
common course of common life. Trembling, I
was unable to continue to look through the
glass with which I had watched the motion of
the crew, when the frigate's boat had first been

12 THE LAST MAX.

launched. We rapidly drew near, so that at
length the number and forms of those within
CQuld be discerned ; its dark sides grew big, and
the splash of its oars became audible : I could
distinguish the languid form of my friend, as
he half raised himself at qui* approach.

Perdita's questions had ceased ; she leaned on
my arm, panting with emotions too acute for tears
- — our men pulled alongside the other boat. As
a last effort, my sister mustered her strength,
her firmness ; she stepped from one boat to the
other, and then with a shriek she sprang towards
Raymond, k^nelt at his side, and glueing her lips
to the hand she seized, her face shrouded by
Jher long hair, gave herself up to tears.

Raymond had somewhat raised himself at our
approach, but it was with difficulty that he ex-
erted himself even thus much. With sunken
cheek and hollow eyes, pale and gaunt, how could
I recognize the beloved of Perdita ? I co;atinued
awe-struck and mute— he looked smilingly on
the poor girl ; the smile ^y,as his. A day of sun-

THE LAST MAN. 13

shine falling on a dark valley, displays its before
hidden characteristics ; and now this smile, the
same with which he first spoke Icve to Perdita,
with which he had welcomed the protectorate,
playing on his altered countenance, made
me in my heart's core feel that this was Ray-
mond.

He stretched out to me his other hand ; I dis-
cerned the trace of manacles on his bared wrist.
I heard my sister's sobs, and thought, happy
are women who can weep, and in a passionate
caress disburthen the oppression of their feel-
ings ; shame and habitual restraint hold back a
man. I would have given worlds to have acted
as in days of boyhood, have strained him to my
breast, pressed his hand to my lips, and wept
over him ; my swelling heart choked me ; the
natural current would not be checked ; the big
rebellious tears gathered in my eyes ; I turned
aside, and they dropped in the sea — they came
fast and faster ; — yet I could hardly be ashamed,
for I saw that the rough sailors were not un-

14 THE LAST MAK.

moved, and Raymond's eyes alone were di*y
from among our crew. He lay in that blessed
calm which convalescence always induces, enjoy-
ing in secure tranquillity his liberty and re-union
with her whom he adored. Perdita at length
subdued her burst of passion, and rose, — she
looked round for Clara ; the child frightened,
not recognizing her father, and neglected by us,
had crept to the other end of the boat ; she came
at her mother's call. Perdita presented her to
Raymond ; her first words were : '' Beloved, em-
brace our child:" " Come hither, sweet one," said
her father, " do you not know me ?" she knew
his voice, and cast herself in his arms with half
bashful but uncontrollable emotion.

Perceiving the weakness of Raymond, I was
afraid of ill consequences from the pressure of
the crowd on his landing. But they were awed
as I had been, at the change of his appearance.
The music died away, the shouts abruptly
ended ; the soldiers had cleared a space in which
a carriage was drawn up. He was placed in it ;

THE LAST MAN. 15

Perdlta and Clara entered with him, and his es-
cort closed round it ; a hollow murmur, akin to
the roaring of the near waves, went through the
multitude ; they fell back as the carriage ad-
vanced, and fearful of injuring him they had
come to welcome, by loud testimonies of joy,
they satisfied themselves with bending in a low
salaam as the carriage passed ; it went slowly
along the road of the Piraeus ; passed by antique
temple and heroic tomb, beneath the craggy
rock of the citadel. The sound of the waves was
left behind ; that of the multitude continued at
intervals, supressed and hoarse ; and though, in
the city, the houses, churches, and pubhc build-
ings were decorated with tapestry and banners —
though the soldiery lined the streets, and the in-
habitants in thousands were assembled to give
him hail, the same solemn silence prevailed, the
soldiery presented arms, the banners vailed,
many a white hand waved a streamer, and vainly
sought to discern the hero in the vehicle, which,

16 THE LAST MAN.

closed and encompassed by the city guards,
drew him to the palace allotted for his abode.

Raymond was weak and exhausted, yet the
interest he perceived to be excited on his account,
filled him with proud pleasure. He was nearly
killed with kindness. It is true, the populace
retained themselves; but there arose a perpetual
hum and bustle from the throng round the palace,
which added to the noise of fireworks, the frequent
explosion of arms, the tramp to and fro of horse-
men and carriages, to which effervescence he was
the focus, retarded his recovery. So we retired
awhile to Eleusis, and here rest and tender care
added each day to the strength of our invalid.
The zealous attention of Perdita claimed the
first rank in the causes which induced his rapid
recovery ; but the second was surely the delight
he felt in the affection and good will of the
Greeks. We are said to love much those whom
we greatly benefit. Raymond had fought and
conquered for the Athenians ; he had suffered.

THE LAST MAN. 17

on their account, peril, imprisonment, and hard-
ship ; their gratitude affected him deeply, and
he inly vowed to unite his fate for ever to that
of a people so enthusiastically devoted to him.

Social feeling and sympathy constituted a
marked feature in my disposition. In early
youth, the living drama acted around me, drew
me heart and soul into its vortex. I was now
conscious of a change. I loved, I hoped, I en-
joyed ; but there was something besides this. I
was inquisitive as to the internal principles of
action of those around me : anxious to read their
thoughts justly, and for ever occupied in divining
their inmost mind. All events, at the same
time that they deeply interested me, arranged
themselves in pictures before me. I gave the
right place to every personage in the groupe, the
just balance to every sentiment. This under-
current of thought, often soothed me amidst
distress, and even agony. It gave ideality to
tliat, from which, taken in naked truth, the soul
would have revolted : it bestowed pictorial cq-

18 THE LAST MAK.

lours on misery and disea^, and not unfrequently
relieved me from despair in deplorable changes.
This faculty, or instinct, was now rouzed. I
watched the re-awakened devotion of my sister ;
Clara's timid, but concentrated admiration of
her father, and Raymond's appetite for renown,
and sensitiveness to the demonstrations of affec-
tion of the Athenians. Attentively perusing
this animated volume, I was the less surprised
at the tale I read on the new-turned page.

The Turkish army were at this time besieging
Rodosto ; and the Greeks, liastening their pre-
parations, and sending each day reinforcements,
were on the eve of forcing the enemy to battle.
Each people looked on the coming struggle as
that which would be to a great degree decisive ;
as, in case of victory, the next step would be the
siege of Constantinople by the Greeks. Ray-
mond, being somewhat recovered, prepared to
re-assume his command in the army.

Perdita did not oppose herself to this deter-
mination. She only stipulated to be permitted

THE LAST MAN. 19

to accompany him. She had set down no rule
of conduct for herself ; but for her hfe she could
not liave opposed his slightest wish, or do other
than acquiesce cheerfully in all his projects.
One word, in truth, had alarmed her more than
battles or sieges, during which she trusted Ray-
mond's high command would exempt him from
danger. That word, as yet it was no more to
her, was Plague. This enemy to the human
race had begun early in June to raise its ser-
pent-head on the shores of the Nile ; parts
of Asia, not usually subject to this evil, were
infected. It was in Constantinople ; but as each
year that city experienced a like visitation, small
attention was paid to those accounts which de-
clared more people to have died there already,
tha;n usually made up the accustomed prey of
the whole of the hotter months. However it
might be, neither plague nor war could prevent
Perdita from following her lord, or induce her
to utter one objection to the plans which he pro-
posed, To be near him, to be loved by him, to

^0 THE LAST MAN.

feel him again her own, was the limit of her de-
sires. The object of her life was to do him
pleasure : it had been so before, but with a dif-
ference. In past times, without thought or
foresight she had made him happy, being so
herself, and in any question of choice, consulted
her own wishes, as being one with his. Now
she sedulously put herself out of the question,
sacrificing even her anxiety for his health and
welfare to her resolve not to oppose any of his
desires. Love of the Greek people, appetite for
glory, and hatred of the barbarian government
under which he had suffered even to the approach
of death, stimulated him. He wished to repay
the kindness of the Athenians, to keep alive
the splendid associations connected with his
name, and to eradicate from Europe a power
which, while every other nation advanced in civi-
lization, stood still, a monument of antique bar-
barism. Having effected the reunion of R aymond
and Perdita, I was eager to return to England ;
but his earnest request, added to awakening

THE LAST MAN. 21

curiosity, and an indefinable anxiety to behold
the catastrophe, now apparently at hand, in
the long drawn history of Grecian and Turkish
warfare, induced me to consent to prolong until
the autumn, the period of my residence in
Greece.

As soon as the health of Raymond was suffi-
ciently re-established, he prepared to join the
Grecian camp, near Kishan, a town of some
importance, situated to the east of the Hebrus ;
in which Perdita and Clara were to remain until
the event of the expected battle. We quitted
Athens on the 2nd of June. Raymond had re-
covered from the gaunt and pallid looks of fever.
If I no longer saw the fresh glow of youth on
his matured countenance, if care had besieged
his brow,

*• And dug deep trenches in his beauty's field," *

if his hair, slightly mingled with grey, and his
look, considerate even in its eagerness, gave signs

♦ Shaksi)eare's Sonnets.

S2 THE LAST MAX.

of added years and past sufferings, yet there was
something irresistibly affecting in the sight of
one, lately snatched from the grave, renewing
his career, untamed by sickness or disaster.
The Athenians saw in him, not as heretofore, the
heroic boy or desperate man, who was ready to
die for them; but the prudent commander,
who for their sakes was careful of his life, and
could make his own warrior- propensities second
to the scheme of conduct policy might point
out.

All Athens accompanied us for several miles.
When he had landed a month ago, the noisy
populace had been hushed by sorrow and fear ;
but this was a festival day to all. The air re-
sounded with their shouts; their picturesque
costume, and the gay colours of which it was
composed, flaunted in the sunshine; their eager
gestures and rapid utterance accorded with their
wild appearance. Raymond was the theme of
every tongue, the hope of each wife, mother or
betrothed bride, whose husband, child, or lover,

THE LAST MAN. ^

making a part of the Greek army, were to be
conducted to victory by him.

Notwithstanding the hazardous object of our
journey, it was full of romantic interest, as we
j)assed tlirough the valHes, and over the hills, of
tliis divine country. Raymond was inspirited
by the intense sensations of recovered health ;
he felt that in being general of tlie Athenians,
he filled a post worthy of his ambition ; and, in
his hope of the conquest of Constantinople, he
counted on an event which would be as a land-
mark in the waste of ages, an exploit unequalled
in the annals of man ; when a city of grand his-
toric association, the beauty of whose site was
the wonder of the world, which for many hun-
dred years had been the strong hold of the
Moslems, should be rescued from slavery and
barbarism, and restored to a people illustrious
for genius, civilization, and a spirit of liberty.
Perdita rested on his restored society, on
his love, his hopes and fame, even as a Sy-
barite on a luxurious couch ; every thought

24 THE LAST MAX.

was transport, each emotion bathed as it were in
a congenial and balmy element.

We arrived at Kishan on the 7th of July.
The weather during our journey had been
serene. Each day, before dawn, we left our
night's encampment, and watched the shadows
as they retreated from hill and valley, and the
golden splendour of the sun's approach. The
accompanying soldiers received, with national
vivacity, enthusiastic pleasure from the sight of
beautiful nature. The uprising of the star of
day was hailed by triumphant strains, while the
birds, heard by snatches, filled up the intervals of
the music. At noon, we pitched our tents in
some shady valley, or embowering wood among
the mountains, while a stream prattling over
pebbles induced grateful sleep. Our evening
march, more calm, was yet more delightful than
the morning restlessness of spirit. If the band
played, involuntarily they chose airs of mode-
rated passion ; the farewell of love, or lament at
absence, was followed and closed by some solemn

THE LAST MAN. 25

hymn, which harmonized with the tranquil love-
liness of evening, and elevated the soul to grand
and religious thought. Often all sounds were
suspended, that we might listen to the nightin-
gale, while the fire-flies danced in bright mea-
sure, and the soft cooing of the aziolo spoke of
fair weather to the travellers. Did we pass a
valley ? Soft shades encompassed us, and rocks
tinged with beauteous hues. If we traversed a
mountain. Greece, a living map, was spread be-
neath, her renowned pinnacles cleaving the ether ;
her rivers threading in silver line the fertile
land Afraid almost to breathe, we English tra-
vellers surveyed with extasy this splendid land-
scape, so different from the sober hues and
melancholy graces of our native scenery. When
we quitted Macedonia, the fertile but low plains
of Thrace afforded fewer beauties; yet our
journey continued to be interesting. An advanced
guard gave information of our approach, and
the country people were quickly in motion to do
honour to Lord Raymond, The villages were

VOL. II. c

Xb THE LAST MAN.

m

decorated by triumphal arches of greenery by
day, and lamps by night ; tapestry waved from
the windows, the ground was strewed withflowers,
and the name of Raymond, joined to that of
Greece, was echoed in the Evive of the peasant
crowd.

When we arrived at Kishan, we learnt, that
on hearing of the advance of Lord Raymond
and his detachment, the Turkish army had re-
treated from Rodosto ; but meeting with a rein-
forcement, they had re-trod their steps. In the
meantime, Argyropylo, the Greek commander-
in-chief, had advanced, so as to be between the
Turks and Rodosto .; a battle, it was said, was
inevitable. Perdita and her child weje to remain
at Kishan. Raymond asked me, if I would not
continue with them. " Now by the fells of
Cumberland,' ' I cried, " by all of the vagabond
and poacher that appertains to me, I will stand
at your side, draw my sword in the Greek cause,
and be hailed as a victor along with you !"

All the plain, from Kishan to Rodosto, a dis-

THE LxVST MAN. 27

tance of sixteen leagues, was alive with troops,
or with the camp-followers, all in motion at the
approach of a battle. The small garrisons were
dravvn from the various towns and fortresses,
and went to swell the main army. We met
baggage waggons, and many females of high and
low rank returning to Fairy or Kishan, there to
wait the issue of the expected day. When we
arrived at Rodosto, we found that the field had
been taken, and the scheme of the battle arranged.
The sound of firing, early on the following
morning, informed us that advanced posts of the
armies were engaged. Regiment after regiment
advanced, their colours flying and bands playing.
They planted the cannon on the tumuli, sole
elevations in this level country, and formed
themselves into column and hollow square; whik^
the pioneers threw up small mounds for their
protection.

These then were the preparations for a battle,
nay, the battle itself; far different from any
c 2

28 THE LAST MAN.

thing the imagination had pictured. We read
of centre and wing in Greek and Roman history;
we fancy a spot, plain as a table, and soldiers
small as chessmen ; and drawn forth, so that the
most ignorant of the game can discover science
and order in the disposition of the forces. When
I came to the reality, and saw regiments file off'
to the left far out of sight, fields intervening be-
tween the battalions, but a few troops sufficiently
near me to observe their motions, I gave up
all idea of understanding, even of seeing a battle,
but attaching myself to Raymond attended with
intense interest to his actions. He shewed him-
self collected, gallant and imperial ; his commands
were prompt, his intuition of the events of the
day to me miraculous. In the mean time the
cannon roared ; the music lifted up its enliven-
ing voice at intervals ; and we on the highest of
the mounds I mentioned, too far off' to observe
the fallen sheaves which death gathered into his
storehouse, beheld the regiments, now lost in

THE LAST MAN. 29

smoke, now banners and staves peering above
the cloud, while shout and clamour drowned
every sound.

Early in the day, Argyropylo was wounded
dangerously, and Raymond assumed the com-
mand of the whole army. He made few remarks,
till, on observing through his glass the sequel of
an order he had given, his face, clouded for
awhile with doubt, became radiant. " The day
is ours,"" he cried, "the Turks fly from the
bayonet. And then swiftly he dispatched his
aides-de-camp to command the horse to fall on
the routed enemy. The defeat became total ;
the cannon ceased to roar ; the infantry rallied,
and horse pursued the flying Turks along the
dreary plain ; the staff* of Raymond was dis-
persed in various directions, to make observations,
and bear commands. Even I was dispatched
to a distant part of the field.

The ground on which the battle was fought,
was a level plain— so level, that from the tumuli
you saw the waving line of mountains on the

30 THE LAST MAN.

wide-Stretched horizon; yet the intervening space
was unvaried by the least irregularity, save
such undulations as resembled the waves of
the sea. The whole of this part of Thrace had
been so long a scene of contest, that it had re-
mained uncultivated, and presented a dreary,
barren appearance. The order I had received,
was to make an observation of the direction
which a detachment of the enemy might have
taken, from a northern tumulus; the whole
Turkish army, folio wed by the Greek, had poured
eastward ; none but the dead remained in the
direction of my side. From the top of the
mound, I looked far round— all was silent and
deserted.

The last beams of the nearly sunken sun
shot up from behind the far summit of Mount
Athos ; the sea of Marmora still glittered be-
neath its rays, while the Asiatic coast beyond
was half hid in a haze of low cloud. Many a
casque, and bayonet, and sword, fallen from un-
nerved arms, reflected the departing ray; they lay

THE LAST MAN. 31

scattered far and near. From tlie east, a band of
ravens, old inhabitants of the Turkish cemeteries,
came sailing along towards their harvest ; the
sun disappeared. This hour, melancholy yet
sweet, has always seemed to me the time when
we are most naturally led to commune with
higher powers ; our mortal sternness departs, and
gentle complacency invests the soul. But now, in
the midst of the dying and the dead, how could a
thought of heaven or a sensation of tranquillity
possess one of the murderers ? During the busy
day, my mind had yielded itself a willing slave
to the state of things presented to it by its fellow-
beings ; historical association, hatred of the foe,
and military enthusiasm had held dominion over
me. Now, I looked on the evening star, as
softly and calmly it hung pendulous in the
orange hues of sunset. I turned to the corse-
strewn eai'th ; and felt ashamed of my species.
So perhaps were the placid skies; for they
quickly veiled themselves in mist, and in this
change assisted the swift disappearance of twilight

32 THE LAST MAN.

usual in the south ; heavy masses of cloud floated
up from the south east, and red and turbid
lightning shot from their dark edges ; the rush-
ing wind disturbed the garments of the dead, and
was chilled as it passed over their icy forms.
Darkness gathered round ; the objects about me
became indistinct, I descended from my station,
and with difficulty guided my horse, so as to
avoid the slain.

Suddenly I heard a piercing shriek; a form
seemed to rise from the earth ; it flew swiftly
towards me, sinking to the ground again as it
drew near. All this passed so suddenly, that I
with difficulty reined in my horse, so that it
should not trample on the prostrate being. The
dress of this person was that of a soldier, but the
bared neck and arms, and the continued shrieks
discovered a female thus disguised. I dismount-
ed to her aid, while she, with heavy groans, and
her hand placed on her side, resisted my attempt
to lead her on. In the hurry of the moment I
forgot that I was in Greece, and in my native

THE LAST MAN.

53

accents endeavoured to soothe the sufferer. With
wild and terrific exclamations did the lost, dying
Evadne (for it was she) recognize the language
of her lover ; pain and fever from her wound
had deranged her intellects, while her piteous
cries and feeble efforts to escape, penetrated me
with compassion. In wild delirium she called
upon the name of Raymond; she exclaimed that
I was keeping him from her, while the Turks
with fearful instruments of torture were ^bout
to take his life. Then again she sadly lamented
her hard fate ; that a woman, with a woman's
heart and sensibility, should be driven by hope-
less love and vacant hopes to take up the trade
of arms, and suffer beyond the endurance of
man privation, labour, and pain — the while
her dry, hot hand pressed mine, and her brow
and lips burned with consuming fire.

As her strength grew less, I lifted her from

the ground ; her emaciated form hung over my

arm, her sunken cheek rested on my breast ; in

a sepulchral voice she murmured: — "This is

c3

34 THE LAST MAN.

the end of love ! — Yet not the end !" — and
frenzy lent her strength as she cast her arm up
to heaven : " there is the end ! there we meet
again. Many living deaths have I borne for
thee, O Raymond, and now I expire, thy vic-
tim! — By my death I purchase thee — lo! the
instruments of war, fire, the plague are my
servitors. I dared, I conquered them all, till
now ! I have sold myself to death, with the sole
condition that thou shouldst follow me — Fire,
and war, and plague, unite for thy destruction —
O my Raymond, there is no safety for thee !"

With an heavy heart I listened to the changes
of her delirium ; I made her a bed of cloaks ;
her violence decreased and a clammy dew stood
on her brow as the paleness of death succeed-
ed to the crimson of fever, I placed her on the
cloaks. She continued to rave of her speedy
meeting with her beloved in the grave, of his
death nigh at hand ; sometimes she solemnly
declared that he was summoned ; sometimes she
bewailed his hard destiny. Her voice grew

THE LAST MAV. 35

feebler, her speech interrupted ; a few convul-
sive movements, and her muscles relaxed, the
limbs fell, no more to be sustained, one deep
sigh, and life was gone.

I bore her from the near neighbourhood of
the dead ; wrapt in cloaks, I placed Her beneath
a tree. Once more I looked on her altered face ;
the last time I saw her she was eighteen ;
beautiful as poet's vision, splendid as a Sultana
of the East — Twelve years had past; twelve
years of change, sorrow and hardship ; her
brilliant complexion had become worn and dark,
her limbs had lost the roundness of youth and
womanhood ; her eyes had sunk deep,

Crushed and o'erworn,
The hours had drained her blood, and filled her brow
With lines and wrinkles.

With shuddering horror I veiled this monu-
ment of human passion and human misery ; I
heaped over her all of flags and heavy accoutre-
ments I could find, to guard her from birds and
beasts of prey, until I could bestow on her a

36 THE LAST MAN.

fitting grave. Sadly and slowly I stemned my
course from among the heaps of slain, and,
guided by the twinkling lights of the town, at
length reached Rodosto.

THE LAST MAN. 73

CHAPTER II.

On my arrival, I found that an order had
already gone forth for the army to proceed im-
mediately towards Constantinople ; and the troops
which had suffered least in the battle were already
on their way. The town was full of tumult.
The wound, and consequent inability of Ar-
gyropylo, caused Raymond to be the first in com-
mand. He rode through the town, visiting the
wounded, and giving such orders as were ne-
cessary for the siege he meditated. Early in
the morning the whole army was in motion. In
the hurry I could hardly find an opportunity
to bestow the last offices on Evadne. Attended
only by my servant, I dug a deep grave for her
at the foot of the tree, and without disturbing
her warrior shroud, I placed her in it, heaping

38 THE LAST MAN.

stones upon the grave. The dazzling sun and
glare of daylight, deprived the scene of solem-
nity ; from Evadne's low tomb, I joined Ray-
mond and his staff, now on their way to the
Golden City.

Constantinople was invested, trenches dug,
and advances made. The whole Greek fleet
blockaded it by sea; on land from the river
Kyat Kbanah, near the Sweet Waters, to the
Tower of Marmora, on the shores of the Pro-
pontis, along the whole line of the ancient walls,
the trenches of the siege were drawn. We
already possessed Pera ; the Golden Horn itself,
the city, bastioned by the sea, and the ivy-
mantled walls of the Greek emperors was all
of Europe that the Mahometans could call
theirs. Our army looked on her as certain prey.
They counted the garrison; it was impossible
that it should be relieved ; each sally was a vic-
tory ; for, even when the Turks were trium-
phant, the loss of men they sustained was an
irreparable injury.

THE LAST MAN. 39

I rode one morning with Raymond to the
lofty mound, not far from the Top Kapou,
(Cannon-gate), on which Mahmoud planted his
standard, and first saw the city. Still the same
lofty domes and minarets towered above the ver-
durous walls, where Constantine had died, and the
Turkhad entered the city. The plain around was
interspersed with cemeteries, Turk, Greek, and
Armenian, with their growth of cypress trees ;
and other woods of more cheerful aspect, diver-
sified the scene. Among them the Greek army
was encamped, and their squadrons moved to
and fro — now in regular march, now in swift
career.

Raymond's eyes were fixed on the city. " I
have counted the hours of her life," said he;
" one month, and she falls. Remain with me
till then ; wait till you see the cross on St. Sophia;
and then return to your peaceful glades.'"

" You then," I asked, " still remain in
Greece ?""

40 THE LAST MAN.

" Assuredly," replied Raymond. " Yet Lio-
nel, when I say this, believe me I look back with
regret to our tranquil life at Windsor. I am
but half a soldier ; I love the renown, but not
the trade of war. Before the battle of Rodosto
I was full of hope and spirit ; to conquer there,
and afterwards to take Constantinople, was the
hope, the bourne, the fulfilment of my ambition.
This enthusiasm is now spent, I know not why;
I seem to myself to be entering a darksome
gulph ; the ardent spirit of the army is irksome
to me, the rapture of triumph null.''

He paused, and was lost in thought. His
serious mien recalled, by some association, the
half-forgotten Evadne to my mind, and I seized
this opportunity to make enquiries from him
concerning her strange lot. I asked him, if he
had ever seen among the troops any one resem-
bling her ; if since he had returned to Greece
he had heard of her ?

He started at her name,— he looked uneasily

THE LAST MAN. 41

on me. '' Even so," he cried, " I knew you
would speak of her. Long, long I had forgotten
her. Since our encampment here, she daily,
hourly visits my thoughts. When 1 am addressed,
her name is the sound I expect : in every com-
munication, I imagine that she will form a part.
At length you have broken the spell ; tell me
what you know of her."

I related my meeting with her ; the story of
her death was told and re- told. With painful
earnestness he questioned me concerning her pro-
phecies with regard to him. I treated them as
the ravings of a maniac. " No, no," he said,
" do not deceive yourself, — me you cannot.
She has said nothing but what I knew before —
though this is confirmation. Fire, the sword,
and plague ! They may all be found in yonder
city; on my head alone may they fall !'*'

From this day Raymond'*s melancholy in-
creased. He secluded himself as much as the
duties of his station permitted. When in com-
pany, sadness would in spite of every effort steal

42 THE LAST MAN.

over hib features, and he sat absent and mute
among the busy crowd that thronged about
him. Perdita rejoined him, and before her he
forced himself to appear cheerful, for she, even
as a mirror, changed as he changed, and if he
were silent and anxious, she solicitously inquired
concerning, and endeavoured to remove the cause
of his seriousness. She resided at the palace of
Sweet Waters, a summer seraglio of the Sultan;
the beauty of the surrounding scenery, undefiled
by war, and the freshness of the river, made this
spot doubly delightful. Raymond felt no relief,
received no pleasure from any show of heaven
or earth. He often left Perdita, to wander in
the grounds alone ; or in a light shallop he floated
idly on the pure waters, musing deeply. Some-
times I joined him ; at such times his counte-
nance was invariably solemn, his air dejected. He
seemed relieved on seeing me, and would talk
with some degree of interest on the affairs of the
day. There was evidently something behind
all this ; yet, when he appeared about to speak

THE LAST MAN. 43

of that which was nearest his heart, he would
abruptly turn away, and with a sigh endeavour
to deliver the painful idea to the winds.

It had often occurred, that, when, as I said,
Raymond quitted I'erdita's drawing-room, Clara
came up to me, and gently drawing me aside,
said, " Papa is gone; shall we go to him .'^ I
dare say he will be glad to see you." And, as
accident permitted, I complied with or refused
her request. One evening a numerous assembly
of Greek chieftains were gathered together in
the palace. The intriguing Palli, the accom-
pHshed Karazza, the warlike Ypsilanti, were
among the principal. They talked of the events
of the day ; the skirmish at noon ; the dimi-
nished numbers of the Infidels ; their defeat and
flight : they contemplated, after a short interval
of time, the capture of the Golden City. They
endeavoured to picture forth wiiat would then
happen, and spoke in lofty terms of the pros-
perity of Greece, when Constantinople should
become its capital. The conversation then re"

44 THE LAST MANi

verted to Asiatic intelligence, and the ravages
the plague made in its chief cities ; conjectures
were hazarded as to the progress that disease
might have made in the besieged city.

Raymond had joined in the former part of the
discussion. In lively terms he demonstrated the
extremities to which Constantinople was reduced;
the wasted and haggard, though ferocious ap-
pearance of the troops; famine and pestilence
was at work for them, he observed, and the in-
fidels would soon be obliged to take refuge in
their only hope — submission. Suddenly in the
midst of his harangue he broke off, as if stung
by some painful thought ; he rose uneasily, and
I perceived him at length quit the hall, and
through the long corridor seek the open air.
He did not return ; and soon Clara crept round
to me, making the accustomed invitation. I
consented to her request, and taking her little
hand, followed Raymond. We found him just
about to embark in his boat, and he readily
agreed to receive us as companions. After the

THE LAST MAN. 45

heats of the day, the cooling land-breeze ruffled
the river, and filled our httle sail. The city
looked dark to the south, while numerous lights
along the near shores, and the beautiful aspect
of the banks reposing in placid night, the waters
keenly reflecting the»heavenly lights, gave to this
beauteous river a dower of loveliness that might
have characterized a retreat in Paradise. Our
single boatman attended to the sail ; Raymond
steered ; Clara sat at his feet, clasping his knees
with her arms, andlayingher head on them. Ray-
mond began the conversation somewhat abruptly.
" This, my friend, is probably the last time
we shall have an opportunity of conversing
freely ; my plans are now in full operation, and
my time will become more and more occupied.
Besides, I wish at once to tell you my wishes
and expectations, and then never again to revert
to so painful a subject. First, I must thank you,
Lionel, for having remained here at my request.
Vanity first prompted me to ask you : vanity, I
call it ; yet even in this I see the hand of fate— ^

46 THE LAST MAN.

your presence will soon be necessary ; you will
become the last resource of Perdita, her protec-
tor and consoler. You will take her back to
Windsor." —

" Not without you,'"* I said. " You do not
mean to separate again ?"

" Do not deceive yourself," replied Raymond,
'* the separation at hand is one over which I
have no control ; most near at hand is it ; the
days are already counted. May I trust you ?
For many days I have longed to disclose the
mysterious presentiments that weigh on me,
although I fear that you will ridicule them.
Yet do not, my gentle friend ; for, all childish
and unwise as they are, they have become a
part of me, and I dare not expect to shake them
off.

" Yet how can I expect you to sympathize
with me 1 You are of this world ; I am not.
You hold forth your hand ; it is even as a part
of yourself ; and you do not yet divide the feel-
ing of identity from the mortal form that shapes

THE LAST MAN. 47

forth Lionel. How then can you understand
me ? Earth is to me a tomb, the firmament a
vault, shrouding mere corruption. Time is no
more, for I have stepped within the threshold
of eternity ; each man I meet appears a corse,
which will soon be deserted of its animating
spark, on the eve of decay and corruption.

Cada piedra un piramide levanta.
y cada flor costruye un monuraento,
cada edificio es un sepulcro altivo,
cada soldado un esqueleto vivo."-}-

His accent was moiu-nful, — he sighed deeply.
" A few months ago," he continued, '' I was
thought to be dying ; but life was strong within
me. My affections were human ; hope and
love were the day-stars of my life. Now — they
dream that the brows of the conqueror of the
infidel faith are about to be encircled by tri-
umphant laurel ; they talk of honourable re-
ward, of title, power, and wealth — all I ask of
Greece is a grave. Let them raise a mound

f Calderon de la Barca,

48 THE LAST MAN.

above my lifeless body, which may stand even
when the dome of St. Sophia has fallen.

" Wherefore do I feel thus ? At Rodosto I
was full of hope ; but when first I saw Con-
stantinople, that feeling, with every other joy-
ful one, departed. The last words of Evadne
were the seal upon the warrant of my death.
Yet I do not pretend to account for my mood
by any particular event. All I can say is, that it
is so. The plague I am told is in Constantinople,
perhaps I have imbibed its effluvia— perhaps
disease is the real cause of my prognostications.
It matters little why or wherefore I am affected,
no power can avert the stroke, and the shadow
of Fate's uplifted hand already darkens me.

*' To you, Lionel, I entrust your sister and
her child. Never mention to her the fatal name
of Evadne. She would doubly sorrow over the
strange link that enchains me to her, making
my spirit obey her dying voice, following her,
as it is about to do, to the unknown country."

I listened 1o him with wonder ; but that his

THE LAST MAK. 49

sad demeanour and solemn utterance assured me
of the truth and intensity of his feeUngs, I should
with light derision have attempted to dissipate
his fears. Whatever I was about to reply, was
interrupted by the powerful emotions of Clara.
Raymond had spoken, thoughtless of her pre-
sence, and she, poor child, heard with terror and
faith the prophecy of his death. Her father was
moved by her violent grief; he took her in his
arnfe and soothed her, but his very soothings were
solemn and fearful, '' Weep not, sweet child,"
said he, " the coming death of one you have
hardly known. I may die, but in death I can
never forget or desert my own Clara, In after
sorrow or joy, believe that your father's spirit is
near, to save or sympathize with you. Be proud
of me, and cherish your infant remembrance of
me. Thus, sweetest, I shall not appear to die.
One thing you must promise,— not to speak to
any one but your uncle, of the conversation you
have just overheard. When I am gone, you will
console your mother, and tell her that death was

VOL. II. p

50 THE LAST MAN.

only bitter because it divided me from her ; that
vay last thoughts will be spent on her. But
while I live, promise not to betray me ; promise,
my child."

With faltering accents Clara promised, while
she still clung to her father in a transport of
sorrow. Soon we returned to shore, and I en-
deavoured to obviate the impression made on the
child's mind, by treating Raymond's fears lightly.
We heard no more of them ; for, as he had said,
the siege, now drawing to a conclusion, became
paramount in interest^ engaging all his time and
attention.

The empire of the Mahometans in Europe
was at its close. The Greek fleet blockading
every port of Stamboul, prevented the arrival of
succour from Asia; all egress on the side towards
land had become impracticable, except to such
desperate sallies, as reduced the numbers of the
enemy without making any impression on our
lines. The garrison was now so much diminished.,
that it was evident that the city could easily have

THE LAST MAN. SI

been carried by storm ; but both humanity and
policy dictated a slower mode of proceeding.
We could hardly doubt that, if pursued to the
utmost, its palaces, its temples and store of
wealth would be destroyed in the fury of con-
tending triumph and defeat. Already the de-
fenceless citizens had suffered through the bar-
barity of the Janisaries ; and, in time of storm,
tumult and massacre, beauty, infancy and decre-
pitude, would have alike been sacrificed to the
brutal ferocity of the soldiers. Famine and
blockade were certain means of conquest ; and
on these we founded our hopes of victory.

Each day the soldiers of the garrison assaulted
our advanced posts, and impeded the accomplish-
ment of our works. Fire-boats were launched
from the various ports, v/hile our troops some-
times recoiled from the devoted courage of men
who did not seek to live, but to sell their lives
dearly. These contests were aggravated by the
season: they took place during summer, when
the southern Asiatic wind came laden with into-

5^ THE LAST MAN.

lerable heat, when the streams were dried up in
their shallow beds, and the vast basin of the sea
appeared to glow under the unmitigated rays of
the solsticial sun. Nor did night refresh the
earth. Dew was denied; herbage and flowers
there were none ; the very trees drooped ; and
summer assumed the blighted appearance of
wdnter, as it went forth in silence and flame to
abridge the means of sustenance to man. In
vam did the eye strive to find the wreck of some
northern cloud in the stainless empyrean, which
might bring hope of change and moisture to the
oppressive and windless atmosphere. All was
serene, burning, annihilating. We the besiegers
were in the comparison little affected by these
evils. The woods around afforded us shade, —
the river secured to us a constant supply of
water ; nay, detachments were employed in fur-
nishing the army with ice, which had been laid
up on Haemus, and Athos, and the mountains
of Macedonia, while cooling fruits and whole-
som.e food r.no ^ated the strength of the labourers.

THE LAST MAN. 53

and made us bear with less impatience the weight
of the unrefreshing air. Hut in the city tilings
wore a different face. The sun''s rays were re-
fracted from the pavement and buildings — tlie
stoppage of the public fountains — the bad quality
of the food, and scarcity even of that, produced
a state of suffering, which was aggravated by the
scourge of disease ; while the garrison arrogated
every superfluity to themselves, adding by waste
and riot to the necessary evils of the time. Still
they would not capitulate.

Suddenly the system of warfare was changed.
We experienced no more assauks ; and by night
and day we continued our labours unimpeded.
Stranger still, when the troops advanced near
the city, the walls were vacant, and no cannon
was pointed against the intruders. When these
circumstances were reported to Raymond, he
caused minute observations to be made as to
what was doing within the walls, and when his
scouts returned, reporting only the continued
silence and desolation of the city, he commanded

54 THE LAST MAN.

the army to be drawn out before the gates. No
one appeared on the walls ; the ver^ portals^
though locked and barred, seemed unguarded ;
above, the many domes and glittering crescents
pierced heaven; while the old walls, survivors of
ages, with ivy-crowned tower and weed-tangled
buttress, stood as reeks in an uninhabited waste.
From within the city neither shout nor cry, nor
aught except the casual howling of a dog, broke
the noon-day stillness. Even our soldiers were
awed to silence; the music paused; the clang of
arms was hushed. Each man asked his fellow
in whispers, the meaning of this sudden peace ;
while Raymond from an height endeavoured, by
means of glasses, to discover and observe the stra-
tagem of the enemy. No form could be dis-
cerned on the terraces of the houses ; in the
higher parts of the town no moving shadow be-
spoke the presence of any living being : the very
trees waved not, and mocked the stability of
architecture with like immovability.

The tramp of horses, distinctly heard in the

THE LAST MAK. 55

silence, was at length discerned. It was a troop
sent by Karazza, the Admiral ; they bore dis-
patches to the Lord General. The contents of
these papers were important. The night before,
the watch, on board one of the smaller vessels
anchored near the seraglio wall, was roused by a
slight splashing as of muffled oars ; the alarm
was given : twelve small boats, each containing
three Janizaries, were descried endeavouring to
make their way through the fleet to the opposite
shore of Scutari. When they found themselves
discovered they discharged their muskets, and
some came to the front to cover the others, whose
€rews, exerting all their strength, endeavoured
to escape with their light barks from among the
dark hulls that environed them. They w^re in
the end all sunk, and, with the exception of two
or three prisoners, the crews drowned. Little
could be got from the survivors ; but their cau-
tious answers caused it to be surmised that seve-
ral expeditions had preceded this last, and that
several Turks of rank and importance had been

56 THE LAST MAN.

conveyed to Asia. The men disdainfully repelled
the idea of having deserted the defence of their
city; and one, the youngest among them, in an-
swer to the taunt of a sailor, exclaimed, " Take it,
Christian dogs ! take the palaces, the gardens, the
mosques, the abode of our fathers — take plague
with them ; pestilence is the enemy we fly ; if she
be your friend, hug her to your bosoms. The
curse of Allah is on Stamboul, share ye her fate."

Such was the account sent by Karazza to
Raymond : but a tale full of monstrous exag-
gerations, though founded on this, was spread
by the accompanying troop among our soldiers.
A murmur arose, the city was the prey of pes-
tilence ; already had a mighty power subju-
gated the inhabitants ; Death had become lord
of Constantinople.

I have heard a picture described, wherein all
the inhabitants of earth were drawn out in
fear to stand the encounter of Death. The
feeble and decrepid fled ; the warriors retreated,
though they threatened even in flight. Wolves

THE LAST MAN. 57

and lions, and various monsters of the desert
roared against him ; while the grim Unreahty
hovered shaking his spectral dart, a soUtary but
invincible assailant. Even so was it with the
army of Greece. I am convinced, that had the
myriad troops of Asia come from over the Pro-
pontis, and stood defenders of the Golden City,
each and every Greek would have marched against
the overwhelming numbers, and have devoted
himself with patriotic fury for his country. But
here no hedge of bayonets opposed itself, no
death-dealing artillery, no formidable array of
brave soldiers — the unguarded walls afforded
easy entrance — the vacant palaces luxurious
dwelling* ; but above the dome of St. Sophia
the superstitious Greek saw Pestilence, and
shrunk in trepidation from her influence.

Raymond was actuated by far other feelings.
He descended the hillwith a face beaming with
triumph, and pointing with his sword to the
gates, commanded his troops to — down with
those barricades — the only obstacles now to com-
D 3

58 THE LAST MAK.

pletest victory. The soldiers answered his
cheerful words with aghast and awe-struck
looks ; instinctively they drew back, and Ray-
mond rode in the front of the lines : — " By
my sword I swear," he cried, " that no ambush
or stratagem endangers you. The enemy is
already vanquished ; the pleasant places, the
noble dwellings and spoil of the city are already
yours ; force the gate ; enter and possess the seats
of your ancestors, your own inheritance !'*

An universal shudder and fearful whispering
passed through the lines ; not a soldier moved.
" Cowards !" exclaimed their general, exaspe-
rated, " give me an hatchet ! I alone will
enter ! I will plant your standard ; and when
you see it wave from yon highest minaret, you
may gain courage, and rally round it !"

One of the officers now came forward : " Ge-
neral," he said, " we neither fear the courage,
nor arms, the open attack, nor secret ambush
of the Moslems. We are ready to expose our
breasts, exposed ten thousand times before, to

THE LAST MAN. 59

the balls and scymetars of the hifidels, and to
fall gloriously for Greece. But we will not die
in heaps, like dogs poisoned in summer-time, by
the pestilential air of that city — we dare not go
against the Plague T'

A multitude of men are feeble and inert,
without a voice, a leader ; give them that, and
they regain the strength belonging to their num-
bers. Shouts from a thousand voices now rent
the air — the cry of applause became uni-
versal. Raymond saw the danger ; he was will-
ing to save his troops from the crime of dis-
obedience; for he knew, that contention once
begun between the commander and his army,
each act and word added to the weakness of the
former, and bestowed power on the latter. He
gave orders for the retreat to be sounded, and
the regiments repaired in good order to the
camp.

T hastened to carry the intelligence of these
strange proceedings to Perdita ; and we were

60 THE LAST MAN.

soon joined by Raymond. He looked glooirty
and perturbed. My sister was struck by my
narrative : " How beyond the imagination of
man," she exclaimed, " are the decrees of
heaven, wondrous and inexplicable !"

'^ Foolish girl," cried Raymond angrily, '^are
you like my valiant soldiers, panic-struck ?
What is there inexplicable, pray, tell me, in so
very natural an occurrence ? Does not the
plague rage each year in Stamboul.^ What
wonder, that this year, when as we are told, its
virulence is unexampled in Asia, that it should
have occasioned double havoc in that city ?
What wonder then, in time of siege, want, ex-
treme heat, and drought, that it should make un-
accustomed ravages ? Less wonder far is it,
that the garrison, despairing of being able to hold
out longer, should take advantage of the neg-
ligence of our fleet to escape at once from siege
and capture. It is not pestilence — by the God
that lives ! it is not either plague or impending

THE LAST UAV. 61

danger that makes us, like birds in harvest-time,
teiTified by a scarecrow, abstain from the ready
prey — it is base superstition— And tlius the aim
of the valiant is made the shuttlecock of fools;
the worthy ambition of the high-souled, the
plaything of these tamed hares ! But yet Stam-
boul shall be ours ! By my past labours, by
torture and imprisonment suffered for them, by
my victories, by my sword, I swear — ^by my
hopes of fame, by my former deserts now await-'
ing their reward, I deeply vow, with these hands
to plant the cross on yonder mosque r

"Dearest Raymond!"' interrupted Perdita,
in a supplicating accent.

He had been walking to and fro in the marble
hall of the seraglio; his very lips were pale with
rage, while, quivering, they shaped his angry
words — his eyes shot fire — his gestures seemed
restrained by then: very vehemence. " Perdita,"
he continued, impatiently, " I know what you
would say ; I know that you love me, that you
are good and gentle ; but this is no woman's

6S THE LAST MAN.

work — nor can a female heart guess at the hur-
ricane which tears me !"

He seemed half afraid of his own violence,
and suddenly quitted the hall : a look from Per-
dita shewed me her distress, and I followed him.
He was pacing the garden : his passions were in
a state of inconceivable turbulence. *' Am I for
ever," he cried, "to be the sport of fortune!
Must man, the heaven-climber, be for ever the
victim of the crawling reptiles of his species !
Were I as you, Lionel, looking forward to many
years of life, to a succession of love-enlightened
days, to refined enjoyments and fresh-springing
hopes, I might yield, and breaking my General's
staff, seek repose in the glades of Windsor.
But 1 am about to die ! — nay, interrupt me not —
soon I shall die. From the many-peopled earth,
from the sympathies of man, from the loved re-
sorts of my youth, from the kindness of my
friends, from the affection of my only beloved
Perdita, I am about to be removed. Such is the
will of fate ! Such the decree of the High Ruler

THE LAST MAN. 63

from whom there is no appeal ; to whom I sub-
mit. But to lose all — to lose with life and love,
glory also ! It shall not be !

" I, and in a few brief years, all you, — this
panic-struck army, and all the population of fair
Greece, will no longer be. But other generations
will arise, and ever and for ever will continue,
to be made happier by our present acts, to be
glorified by our valour. The prayer of my
youth was to be one among those who render the
pages of earth's history splendid ; who exalt the
race of man, and make this little globe a dwell-
ing of the mighty. Alas, ^or Raymond ! the
prayer of his youth is wasted — the hopes of his
manhood are null !

" From my dungeon in yonder city I cried,
soon I will be thy lord ! When Evadne pro-
nounced my death, I thought that the title of
Victor of Constantinople would be written on ^
my tomb, and I subdued all mortal fear. I stand
before its vanquished walls, and dare not call
myself a conqueror. So shall it not be ! Did

64 THE LAST MAN.

not Alexander leap from the walls of the city of
the Oxydracas, to shew his coward troops the
way to victory, encountering alone the swords
of its defenders ? Even so will I brave the plague
— and though no man follow, I will plant the
Grecian stmdard on the height of St. Sophia-."

Reason came unavailing to such high- wrought
feelings. In vain I shewed him, that when
-winter came, the cold would dissipate tlie pesti-
lential air, and restore courage to the Greeks.
" Talk not of other season than this !" he cried.
" I have lived my last winter, and the date of
this year, 2092, will be carved upon my tomb.
Already do I see," he continued, looking up
mournfully, "the bourne and precipitate edge of
my existence, over which I plunge into the gloomy
mystery of the life to come. I am prepared,
so that I leave behind a trail of light so radiant,
that my worst enemies cannot cloud it. I owe
this to Greece, to you, to my surviving Perdita,
and to myself, the victim of ambition."

We were interrupted by an attendant, who

THE LAST MAN. 65

announced, that the staff of Raymond was as-
sembled in the council-chamber. He recjuested
me in the meantime to ride through the camp,
and to observe and report to him the disposi-
tions of the soldiers ; lie then left me. I had
been excited to the utmost by the proceedings
of the day, and now more than ever by the pas-
sionate language of Raymond. Alas ! for
human reason ! He accused the Greeks of
superstition : what name did he give to the faith
he lent to the predictions of Evadne ? I passed
from the palace of Sweet Waters to the plain
on which the encampment lay, and found its in-
habitants in commotion. The arrival of several
with fresh stories of marvels, from tiie fleet ; the
exaggerations bestowed on what was already
known ; tales of old prophecies, of fearful his-
tories of whole regions which had been laid waste
during the present year by pestilence, alarmed
and occupied the troops. Discipline was lost ;
the army disbanded itself. Each individual,
before a part of a great whole moving only in

66 THE LAST MAN.

unison with others, now became resolved into
the unit nature had made him, and thought of
himself only. They stole oif at first by ones
and twos, then in larger companies, until, un-
impeded by the officers, whole battalions sought
the road that led to Macedonia.

About midnight I returned to the palace and
sought Raymond ; he was alone, and apparently
composed ; such composure, at least, was his as
is inspired by a resolve to adhere to a certain
line of conduct. He heaid my account of the
self-dissolution of the army with calmness, and
then said, " You know, Verney, my fixed de-
termination not to quite this place, until in the
light of day Stamboul is confessedly ours. If
the men I have about me shrink from following
me, others, more courageous, are to be found.
Go you before break of day, bear these dis-
patches to Karazza, add to them your own en-
treaties that he send me his marines and naval
force ; if I can get but one regiment to second
me, the rest would follow of course. Let him

THE LAST MAN. 67

send me tliis regiment. I shall expect your re-
turn by to-morrow noon."

Methought this was but a poor expedient;
but I assured him of my obedience and zeal.
I quitted him to take a few hours rest. With
the breaking of morning I was accoutred for my
ride. I lingered awhile, desirous of taking leave
of Perdita, and from my window observed the
approach of the sun. The golden splendour
arose, and weary nature awoke to suffer yet
another day of heat and thirsty decay. Vo
flowers lifted up their dew-laden cups to meet
the dawn ; the dry grass had withered on the
plains ; the burning fields of air were vacant of
birds ; the cicale alone, children of the sun, be-
gan their shrill and deafening song among the
cypresses and olives. I saw Raymond's coal-
black charger brought to the palace gate; a
small company of officers arrived soon after ;
care and fear was painted on each cheek, and in
each eye. unrefreshed by sleep. I found Ray-
mond and Perdita together. He was watching

68 THE LAST MAN.

the rising sun, while with one arm he encircled
his beloved's waist ; she looked on him, the sun
of her life, with earnest gaze of mingled anxiety
and tenderness. Raymond started angrily when
he saw me. " Here still ?" he cried. "" Is this
your promised zeal ?'^

" Pardon me," I said, " but even as you
speak, I am gone."

" Nay, pardon me," he replied ; " I have no
right to command or reproach ; but my life
hangs on your departure and speedy return.
Farewell !"

His voice had recovered its bland tone, but a
dark cloud still hung on his features. I would
have delayed ; I wished to recommend watch-
fulness to Perdita, but his presence restrained
me. I had no pretence for my hesitation ; and
on his repeating his farewell, I clasped his out-
stretched hand ; it was cold and clammy.
" Take care of yourself, my dear Lord," I said.

^^ Nay," said Perdita, " that task shall be
mine. Return speedily, Lionel.''

THE LAST MAN. 69

With an air of absence he was playing with
her auburn locks, while she leaned on him ;
twice I turned back, only to look again on this
matchless pain At last, with slow and heavy
steps, T had paced out of the hall, and sprung
upon my horse. At that moment Clara flew
towards me ; clasping my knee she cried,
" Make haste back, uncle ! Dear uncle, I have
such fearful dreams ; 1 dare not tell my mother.
Do not be long away !" I assured her of my
impatience to return, and then, with a small
escort rode along the plain towards the tower of
Marmora.

I fulfilled my commission ; I saw Karazza.
He was somewhat surprised ; he would see, he
said, what could be done ; but it required time ;
and Raymond had ordered me to return by
noon. It was impossible to effect any thing in
so short a time. I must stay till the next day ;
or come back, after having reported the present
state of things to the general. My choice was
easily made. A restlessness, a fear of what was

70 THE LAST MAN.

about to betide, a doubt as to Raymond's pur-
poses, urged me to return without delay to his
quarters. Quitting the Seven Towers, I rode
eastward towards the Sweet Waters. I took a
circuitous path, principally for the sake of going
to the top of the mount before mentioned, which
commanded a view of the city. I had my glass
with me. The city basked under the noon-day
sun, and the venerable walls formed its pic-
turesque boundary. Immediately before me was
the Top Kapou, the gate near which Mahomet
had made the breach by which he entered thecity.
Trees gigantic and aged grew near ; before the
gate I discerned a crowd of moving human figures
— with intense curiosity I lifted my glass to my
eye. I saw Lord Raymond on his charger ; a
small company of officers had gathered about
him ; and behind was a promiscuous concourse of
soldiers and subalterns, their discipline lost, tlieir
arms throv^n aside ; no music sounded, no ban
ners streamed. The only flag among them was
one which Raymond carried ; he pointed with

THE LAST MAN. 71

it to the gate of the city. The circle round him
fell back. With angry gestures he leapt from
his horse, and seizing a hatchet that hung from
his saddle-bow, went with the apparent intention
of battering down the O; posing gate. A few
men came to aid him ; their numbers increased ;
imder their united blows the obstacle was van-
quished, gate, portcullis, and fence were demo-
lished ; and the wide sun-lit way, leading to the
heart of the city, now lay open before them.
The men shrank back ; they seemed afraid of
what they had already done, and stood as if they
expected some Mighty Phantom to stalk in
offended majesty from the opening. Raymond
sprung lightly on his horse, grasped the stand-
ard, and with words which I could not hear (but
his gestures, being their fit accompaniment, were
marked by passionate energy,) he seemed to ad-
jure their assistance and companionship ; even
as he spoke, the crowd receded from him. Indig-
nation now transported him ; his words I guessed
were fraught with disdain — then turning from

7^

THE LAST MAN.

his coward followers, he addressed himself to
enter the city alone. His very horse seemed
to back from the fatal entrance; his dog, his
faithful dog, lay moaning and supplicating in
his path — in a moment more, he had plunged the
rowels into the sides of the stung animal, who
bounded forward, and he, the gateway passed,
was galloping up the broad and desart street.

Until this moment my soul had been in my
eyes only. I had gazed with wonder, mixed
with fear and enthusiasm. The latter feeling
now predominated. I forgot the distance be-
tween us : " I will go with thee, Raymond !"
I cried ; but, my eye removed from the glass,
I could scarce discern the pigmy forms of the
crowd, which about a mile from me surrounded
the gate ; the form of Raymond was lost. Stung
with impatience, I urged my horse with force
of spur and loosened reins down the acclivity,
that, before danger could arrive, I might be at
the side of my noble, godlike friend. A num-
ber of buildings and trees intervened, when I

THE LAST MAN. 73

had reached the plain, hiding the city from my
view. Bat at that moment a crash was heard.
Thunderhke it reverberated through the sky,
while the air was darkened. A moment more
and the old walls again met my sight, while
over them hovered a murky cloud ; fragments of
buildings whirled above, half seen in smoke,
while flames burst out beneath, and continued
explosions filled the air with terrific thunders.
Flying from the mass of falling ruin which
leapt over the high walls, and shook the ivy
towers, a crowd of soldiers made for the road
by which I came; I was surrounded, hemmed
in by them, unable to get forward. My impa-
tience rose to its utmost ; I stretched out my
hands to the men ; I conjured them to turn back
and save their General, the conqueror of Stam-
boul, the liberator of Greece ; tears, aye tears,
in warm flow gushed from my eyes — I would
not believe in his destruction ; yet every mass
that darkened the air seemed to bear with it a
portion of the mai'tyred Raymond. Horrible

VOL. II. £

74 THE LAST MAN,

sights were shaped to me in' the turbid cloud
that hovered over the city ; and my only relief
was derived from the struggles I made to ap-
proach the gate. Yet when I effected my pur-
pose, all I could discern within the precincts of
the massive walls was a city of fire : the open
way through which Raymond had ridden was
enveloped in smoke and flame. After an in-
terval the explosions ceased, but the flames still
shot up from various quarters ; the dome of St.
Sophia had disappeared. Strange to say (the
result perhaps of the concussion of air occa-
sioned by the blowing up of the city) huge, white
thunder clouds lifted themselves up from the
southern horizon, and gathered over-head ; they
were the first blots on the blue expanse that I
had seen for months, and amidst this havoc and
despair they inspired pleasure. The vault
above became obscured, lightning flashed from
the* heavy masses, followed instantaneously by
crashing' thunder ; then the big rain fell. The
flames of the city bent beneath it; and the

THE LAST MAN. 75

smoke and dust arising from the ruins was
dissipated.

I no sooner perceived an abatement of the flames
than, hunied on by an irresistible impulse, I en-
deavoured to penetrate the town. I could only do
this on foot, as the mass of ruin was imprac-
ticable for a horse, I had never entered the city
before, and its ways were unknown to me. The
streets were blocked up, the ruins smoking ; I
climbed up one heap, only to view others in suc-
cession ; and nothing told me where the centre
of the town might be, or towards what point
Raymond might have directed his cpurse.
The rain ceased; the clouds sunk behind the
horizon ; it was now evening, and the sun de-
scended swiftly the western sky. I scrambled
on, until I came to a street, whose wooden
houses, half-burnt, had been cooled by the rain,
and were fortunately uninjured by the gunpow-
der. Up this I hurried — until now I had not
seen a vestige of man. Yet none of the defaced
human forms which I distinguished, could be
E 2

76 THE LAST MAN.

Raymond ; so I turned my eyes away, while my
heart sickened within me. I came to an open
space — a mountain of ruin in the midst, an-
nounced that some large mosque had occupied
the space — and here, scattered about, I saw va-
rious articles of luxury and wealth, singed,
destroyed — but shewing what they had been in
their ruin — -jewels, strings of pearls, embroidered
robes, rich furs, glittering tapestries, and oriental
ornaments, seemed to have been collected here
in a pile destined for destruction ; but the rain
had stopped the havoc midway.

Hours passed, while in this scene of ruin I
sought for Raymond. Insurmountable heaps
sometimes opposed themselves ; the still burning
fires scorched me. The sun set ; the atmo-
sphere grew dim— and the evening star no longer
shone companionless. The glare of flames
attested the progress of destruction, while, during
mingled light and obscurity, the piles around me
took gigantic proportions and wierd shapes. For
a moment I could yield to the creative power of

THE LAST MAN. 77

the imagiiiatiorij and for a moment was soothed
by the sublime fictions it presented to me. The
l)eatings of my human heart drew me back to
blank reahty. Where, in this wilderness of death,
art thou, O Raymond — ornament of England,
deliverer of Greece, " hero of unwritten story,''
where in this burning chaos are thy dear relics
strewed ? I called aloud for him — through the
darkness of night, over the scorching ruins of
fallen Constantinople, his name was heard ; no
voice replied — echo even was mute.

I was overcome by weariness ; the solitude
depressed my spirits. The sultry air impreg-
nated with dust, the heat and smoke of burning
palaces, palsied my limbs. Hunger suddenly
came acutely upon me. The excitement which
had hitherto sustained me was lost ; as a building,
whose props are loosened, and whose foundations
rock, totters and falls, so when enthusiasm and
hope deserted me, did my strength fail. I sat
on the sole remaining step of an edifice, which
even in its downfall, was huge and magnificent ;

78 THE LAST MAN.

a few broken walls, not dislodged by gunpowder,
stood in fantastic groupes, and a flame glim-
mered at intervals on the summit of the pile.
For a time hunger and sleep contended, till the
constellations reeled before my eyes and then
were lost. I strove to rise, but my heavy lids
closed, my limbs over-wearied, claimed repose —
I rested my head on the stone, I yielded to the
grateful sensation of utter forgetfulness ; and in
that scene of desolation, on that night of despair
— I slept.

THE LAST MAN. 79

CHAPTER IIL

The stars still shone brightly when I awoke,
and Taurus high in the southern heaven shewed
that it Was midnight. I awoke from disturbed
dreams, Methought I had been invited to
Timon's last feast ; I came with keen appetite,
the covers were removed, the hot water sent up
its unsatisfying steams, while I fled before the
anger of the host, who assumed the form of Ray-
mond ; while to my diseased fancy, the vessels
hurled by him after me, were surcharged with
fetid vapour, and my friend's shape, altered by a
thousand distortions, expanded into a gigantic
phantom, bearing on its brow the sign of peiti.

80 ' THE LAST MAN.

lence. The growing shadow rose and ro.^e, fillings
and then seeming to endeavour to burst beyond,
the adamantine vault that bent over, sustaining
and enclosing the world. The night-mare be-
came torture ; with a strong effort I threw off
sleep, and recalled reason to her wonted functions.
My first thought was Perdita ; to her I must
return; her I must support, drawing such food
from despair as might best sustain her wounded
heart ; recalling her from the wild excesses of
grief, by the austere laws of duty, and the soft
tenderness of regret.

The position of the stars was my only guide.
I turned from the awful ruin of the Golden City^
and, after great exertion, succeeded in extricating
myself from its enclosure. I met a company of
soldiers outside the walls ; I borrowed a horse
from one of them, and hastened to my sister.
The appearance of the plain was changed during
this short interval ; the encampment was broken
up; the relics of the disbanded army met in
small companies here and there ; each face was

THE LAST MA:N. 81

clouded ; every gesture spoke astonishment and
dismay.

With an heavy heart I entered the palace,
and stood fearful to advance, to speak, to look.
In the midst of the hall was Perdita; she sat on
the marble pavement, her head fallen on her
bosom, her hair dishevelled, her fingers twined
busily one within the other; she was pale as
marble, and every feature was contracted by
agony. She perceived me, and looked up en-
quiringly; her half glance of hope was misery;
the words died before I could articulate them ; I
felt a ghastly smile wrinkle my lips. She under-
stood my gesture ; again her head fell ; again her
fingers worked restlessly. At last I recovered
speech, but my voice terrified her ; the hapless
girl had understood my look, and for worlds she
would not that the tale of her heavy misery should
have been shaped out and confirmed by hard?
irrevocable words. Nay, she seemed to wish to
distract my thoughts from the subject : she rose
from the floor : *' Hush!" she said, whisperingly ;
E 3

8£ ITHE LAST MA:B5',

^* after much weeping, Clara sleeps ; we must
not disturb her." She seated herself then on the
same ottoman where I had left her in the morning
resting on the beating heart of her Kaymond ;
I dared not approach her, but sat at a distant
corner, watching her starj:ing and nervous ges-
tures. At length, in an abrupt manner she
asked, " Where is he ?"

" O, fear not,"" she continued, '' fear not that
I should entertain hope! Yet tell me, have
you found him ? To have him once more in
my arms, to see him. however changed, is all I
desire. Though Constantinople be heaped above
him as a tomb, yet I must find him — then cover
us with the city's weight, with a mountain piled
above — I care not, so that one grave hold Ray-
mond and his Perdila." Then weeping, she
clung to me : " Take me to him," she cried,
*' unkind Lionel, why do you keep me liere ?
Of myself I cannot find him — ^but you know
where he lies— lead me thither."

At first these agonizing plaints filled me with

THE LAST MAN. 83

intolerable compassion. But soon I endeavoured
to extract patience for her from the ideas she
suggested. I related my adventures of the
night, my endeavours to find our lost one, ani
my disappointment. Turning her thoughts this
way, I gave them an object which rescued them
from insanity. With a])paTent calmness she
discussed with me the probable spot where he
might be found, and planned the means we
should use for that purpose. Then hearing of
my fatigue and abstinence, she herself l^rought
me food. I seized the favourable moment, and
endeavoured to awaken in her something beyond
the killing torpor of grief. As I spoke, my
subject carried me away; deep admiration ; grief,
the offspring of truest affection, the overflowing
of a heart bursting with sympathy for ail that
had been great and sublime in the career of my
friend, inspired me as I poured forth the praises
of Raymond.

'* Alas, for us,^' I cried, " who have lost this
latest honour of the world ! Beloved Raymond !

84 THE LAST MAi^

He is gone to the nations of the dead ; he h&$
become one of those, who render the dark abod(?
of the obscure grave illustrious by dwelling
there. He has journied on the road that leads
to it, and joined the mighty of soul who went
before him. When the world was in its infancy
death must have been terrible^ and man left his
friends and kindred to dwell, a sohtary stranger,
in an unknown country. But now, he who
dies finds many companions gone before to pre-
pare for his reception. The great of past ages
people it, the exalted hero of our own days is
counted among its inhabitants, while life becomes
doubly ' the desart and the solitude.'

'' What a noble creature was Raymond, the
first among the men of our time. By the gran-
deur of his conceptions, the graceful daring of
his actions, by his wit and beauty, he won and
ruled the minds of all. Of one only fault he
might have been accused; but his death has
cancelled that. I have heard him called incon-
stant of purpose — when he deserted, for the sake

THE LAST MAN. 85

of love, the hope of sovereignty, and when he
abdicated the protectorship of England, men
blamed his infirmity of purpose. Now his death
has crowned his life, and to the end of time it
will be remembered, that he devoted himself, a
willing victim, to the glory of Greece. Such
was his choice : he expected to die. He foresaw
that he should leave this cheerful earth, the
lightsome sky, and thy love, Perdita ; yet he
neither hesitated or turned back, o:oino; ria;ht
onward to his mark of fame. While the earth
lasts, his actions will be recorded with praise.
Grecian maidens will in devotion strew flowers
on his tomb, and make the air around it resonant
with patriotic hymns, in which his name will find
high record."

I saw the features of Perdita soften ; the
sternness of grief yielded to tenderness — I con-
tinued : — " Thus to honour him, is the sacred
duty of his survivors. To make his name even
as an holy spot of ground, enclosing it from all
hostile attacks by our praise, shedding on it the

86 THE LAST MAN.

blossoms of love and regret, guarding it from
decay, and bequeathing it untainted to posterity.
Such is the duty of his friends. A dearer one
belongs to you, Perdita, mother of his child.
Do you remember in her infancy, with what
transport you beheld Clara, recognizing in her
the united being of yourself and Raymond ; joy-
ing to view in this living temple a manifestation
of your eternal loves. Even such is she still.
You say that you have lost Raymond. O, no !
—yet he lives with you and in you there. From
him she sprung, flesh of his flesh, bone of his
bone — and not, as heretofore, are you content to
trace in her downy cheek and delicate limbs, an
afiinity to Raymond, but in her enthusiastic
affections, in the sweet qualities of her mind,
you may still find him living, the good, the
great, the beloved. Be it your care to foster
this similarity — be it your care to render her
worthy of him, so that, when she glory in her
origin, she take not shame for what she is.'^
I could perceive that, when I recalled my

THE LAST MAN. 87

sister^s thoughts to her duties in life, she did not
listen with the same patience as before. She
appeared to suspect a plan of consolation on my
part, from which she, cherishing her new-born
grief, revolted. " You talk of the futut"e," she
said, " while the present is all to me. Let me
find the earthly dwelling of my beloved ; let us
rescue that from common dust, so that in times
to come men may point to the sacred tomb, and
name it his — then to other thoughts, and a new-
course of life, or what else fate, in her cruel
tyranny, may have marked out for me."

After a short repose I prepared to leave her,
that 1 might endeavour to accomplish her wish.
In the mean time we were joined by Clara, whose
pallid cheek and scared look shewed the deep
impression grief had made on her young mind.
She seemed to be full of something to which she
could not give words ; but, seizing an opportu-
nity afforded by Perdita's absence, she preferred
to me an earnest prayer, that I would take her
within view of the gate at which her father had

88 THE LAST MAK.

entered Constantinople. She promised to com-
mit no extravagance, to be docile, and imme-
diately to return. I could not refuse ; for Clara
was not an ordinary child ; her sensibility and
intelligence seemed already to have endowed her
with the rights of womanhood. With her there-
fore, before me on my horse, attended only by
the servant who was to re-conduct her, we rode
to the Top Kapou. We found a party of sol-
diei's gathered round it. They were listening.
" They are human cries," said one : " More like
the howling of a dog," replied another ; and
again they bent to catch the sound of regular
distant moans, which issued from the precincts
of the ruined city. " That, Clara," I said, " is
the gate, that the street which yestermorn your
father rode up.'"* Whatever Clara's intention
had been in asking to be brought hither, it was
balked by the presence of the soldiers. With
earnest gaze she looked on the labyrinth of
smoking piles which had been a city, and then
expressed her readiness to return home. At this

THE LAST MAN. 89

moment a melancholy howl struck on our ears ;
it was repeated; "Hark!" cried Clara, " he is
there; that is Florio, my father's dog." It
seemed to me impossible that she could recognise
the sound, but she persisted in her assertion till
she gained credit with the crowd about. At least
it would be a benevolent action to rescue the
sufferer, whether human or brute, from the
desolation of the town; so, sending Clara back to
her home, I again entered Constantinople. En-
couraged by the impunity attendant on my former
visit, several soldiers who had made a part of
Raymond's body guard, who had loved him, and
sincerely mourned his loss, accompanied me.

It is impossible to conjecture the strange en-
chainment of events which restored the lifeless
form of my friend to our hands. In that part
of the town where the fire had most raged the
nigjht before, and which now lay quenched, black
and cold, the dying dog of Raymond crouched
beside the mutilated form of its lord. At such
a time sorrow has no voice ; affliction, tamed by

90 THE LAST MAN.

its very vehemence, is mute. The poor animal
recognised me, licked my hand, crept close to
its lord, and died. He had been evidently
thrown from his horse by some falling ruin,
which had crushed his head, and defaced his
whole person. I bent over the body, and took
in my hand the edge of his cloak, less altered in
appearance than the human frame it clothed.
I pressed it to my lips, while the rough soldiers
gathered around, mourning over this worthiest
prey of death, as if regret and endless lamenta-
tion could re-illumine the extinguished spark, or
call to its shattered prison-house of flesh the
liberated spirit. Yesterday those limbs were
worth an universe ; they then enshrined a tran-
scendant power, whose intents, words, and actions
were worthy to be recorded in Letters of gold ;
now tlie superstition of affection alone could give
value to the shattered mechanism, which, in-
capable and clod- like, no more resembled Ray-
mond, than the fallen rain is like the former
mansion of cloud in which it climbed the highest

•THE LAST MAN. 91

skies, and gilded by the sun, attracted all eyes,
and satiated the sense by its excess of beauty.

Such as he had now become, such as was his
terrene vesture, defaced and spoiled, we wrapt
it in our cloaks, and lifting the burthen in our
arms, bore it from this city of the dead. The
question arose as to where we should deposit
him. In our road to the palace, w^e passed
through the Greek cemetery ; here on a tablet
of black marble I caused him to be laid ; the
cypresses waved high above, their death-like
gloom accorded with his state of nothingness.
We cut branches of the funereal trees and
placed them over him, and on these again his
sword. I left a guard to protect this treasure of
dust ; and ordered perpetual torches to be burned
around.

When I returned to Perdita, I found that
she had already been informed of the success of
my undertaking. lie, her beloved, the sole and
eternal object of her passionate tenderness, was
restored her. Such was the maniac language

9^ THE LAST MAN.

of her enthusiasm. What though those limbs
moved not, and those lips could no more frame
modulated accents of wisdom and love ! What
though like a weed Hung from the fruitless sea,
he lay the prey of corruption— still that was the
f(wm she had caressed, those the lips that meeting
hers, had drank the spirit of love from the
comminghng breath ; that was the earthly me-
chanism of dissoluble clay she had called her
own. True, she looked forward to another
life ; true, the burning spirit of love seemed to
her unextinguishable throughout eternity. Yet
at this time, with human fondness, she clung to
all tliat her human senses permitted her to see
and feel to be a part of Raymond.

Pale as marble, clear and beaming as that,
she heard my tale, and enquired concerning the
spot where he had been deposited. Her features
had lost the distortion of grief; her eyes were
bi'ightened, her very person seemed dilated ;
while the excessive whiteness and even trans-
parency of her skin, and something hollow in

THE LAST MAX. 9e5

her voice, bore witness that not tranquillity, but
excess of excitement, occasioned the treacherous
cahii that settled on her countenance. I asked
her where he should be buried. Slie replied,
" At Athens; even at the Athens which he
loved. Without the town, on the acclivity of
Hymettus, there is a rocky recess which he
pointed out to me as the spot where he would
wish to repose."

My own desire certainly was that he should
not be removed from the spot where he now
lay. But her wish was of course to be complied
with ; and I entreated her to prepare without de-
lay for our departure.

Behold now the melancholy train cross the
flats of Thrace, and wind through the defiles,
and over the mountains of Macedonia, coast the
clear waves of the Peneus, cross die Larissean
plain, pass the straits of Thermopylae, and ascend-
ing in succession CErta and Parnassus, descend to
tke fertile plain of Athens. Women bear with
resignation these long drawn ills, but to a man's

94 THE LAST MAN.

impatient spirit, the slow motion of our caval-
cade, the melancholy repose we took at noon,
the perpetual presence of the pall, gorgeous
though it was, that wrapt the rifled casket which
had contained Raymond, the monotonous le-
currence of day and night, unvaried by hope or
change, all the circumstances of our march were
intolerable. Perdita shut up in herself, spoke
little. Her carriage was closed ; and, when we
rested, she sat leaning her pale cheek on her
white cold hand, with eyes fixed on the ground,
indulging thoughts which refused communication
or sympathy.

We descended from Parnassus, emerging
from its many folds, and passed through Liva-
dia on our road to Attica. Perdita would
not enter Athens ; but reposing at Marathon
on the night of our arrival, conducted me on
the following day, to the spot selected by her as
the treasure house of Raymond's dear remains.
It was in a recess near the head of the ravine to
the south of Hymettus. The chasm, deep.

THE LAST MAN. 95

black, and hoary, swept from the summit to the
base ; in the fissures of the rock myrtle under-
wood grew and wild thyme, the food of many
nations of bees ; enormous crags protruded into
the cleft, some beetling over, others rising per-
pendicularly from it. At the foot of this sub-
lime chasm, a fertile laughing valley reached
from sea to sea, and beyond was spread the blue
^gean, sprinkled with islands, the light waves
glancing beneath the sun. Close to the spot on
which we stood, was a solitary rock, high and
conical, which, divided on every side from the
mountain, seemed a nature-hewn pyramid ; with
little labour this block was reduced to a perfect
shape ; the narrow cell w^as scooped out beneath
in which Raymond was placed, and a short in-
scription, carved in the living stone, recorded
the name of its tenant, the cause and sera of his
death.

Every thing was accomplished with speed
under my directions. I agreed to leave the
finishing and guardianship of the tomb to the

96 THE LAST MAN.

head of the religious establishment at Athens,
and by the end of October prepared for my re-
turn to England. I mentioned this to Perdita.
It was painful to appear to drag her from the
last scene that spoke of her lost one ; but to
linger here was vain, and my very soul was sick
with its yearning to rejoin my Idris and her
babes. In reply, my sister requested me to ac-
company her the following evening to the tomb
of Raymond. Some days had passed since I
had visited the spot. The path to it had been
enlarged, and steps hewn in the rock led us less
circuitously than before, to the spot itself; the
platform on which the pyramid stood v/as en-
larged, and looking towards the south, in a
recess overshadowed by the straggling branches
of a wild fig-tree, I saw foundations dug, and
props and rafters fixed, evidently the commence-
ment of a cottage ; standing on its unfinished
threshold, the tomb was at our right-hand, the
whole ravine, and plain, and azure sea imme-
diately before us ; the dark rocks received a

THE LAST MAX. " 97

glow from the descending sun, which glanced
along the cultivated valley, and dyed in purple
and orange the placid waves ; we sat on a rocky
elevation, and I gazed with rapture on the beau-
teous panorama of living and changeful colours,
which varied and enhanced the graces of earth
and ocean.

" Did I not do right," said Perdita, " in
having my loved one conveyed hither ? Here-
after this will be the cynosure of Greece. In
such a spot death loses half its terrors, and
even the inanimate dust appears to partake of
the spirit of beauty which hallows this region.
Lionel, he sleeps there ; that is the grave of
Raymond, he whom in my youth I first loved ;
whom my heart accompanied in days of separa-
tion and anger ; to whom I am now joined for
ever. Never — mark me — never will I leave this
spot. Methinks his spirit remains here as well
as that dust, which, uncommunicable though it
be, is more precious in its nothingness than
aught else widowed earth clasps to her sorrowing

VOL. II. F

98 THE LAST MAN.

bosom. The myrtle bushes, the thyme, the
httle cyclamen, which peep from the fissures of
the rock, all the produce of the place, bear
affinity to him ; the light that invests the hills
participates in his essence, and sky and moun-
tains, sea and valley, are imbued by the presence
of his spirit. I will live and die here !

'^ Go you to England, Lionel ; return to
sweet Idris and dearest Adrian ; return, and let
my orphan girl be as a child of your own in
your house. Look on me as dead ; and truly
if death be a mere change of state, I am dead.
This is another world, from that which late
I inhabited, from that which is now your home.
Here I hold communion only with the has been,
and to come. Go you to England, and leave
me where alone I can consent to drag out the
miserable days which T must still live."

A shower of tears terminated her sad
harangue. I had expected some extravagant
proposition, and remained silent awhile, collect-
ing my thoughts that I might the better combat

THE LAST MAN. 99

her fanciful scheme. " You cherish dreary
thoughts, my clear Perdita," I said, " nor do I
wonder that for a time your better reason should
be influenced by passionate grief and a dis-
turbed imagination. Even I am in love with
this last home of Raymond's ; nevertheless we
must quit it."

" I expected this,'' cried Perdita ; " I sup-
posed that you would treat me as a mad, foolish
girl. But do not deceive yourself; this cottage
is built by my order ; and here I shall remain,
until the hour arrives when I may share his hap-
pier dwelling."

'^ My dearest girl !"

" And what is there so strange in my design ?
I might have deceived you ; I might have talked
of remaining here only a few months ; in your
anxiety to reach Windsor you would have left
me, and without reproach or contention, I might'
have pursued my plan. But I disdained the
artifice; or rather in my wretchedness it was my
only consolation to pour out my heart to you,

f2

100 THE LAST MAN.

my brother, my only friend. You will not
dispute with me? You know how wilful your
poor, misery-stricken sister is. Take my girl
with you ; wean her from sights and thoughts of
sorrow ; let infantine hilarity revisit her heart,
and animate her eyes ; so could it never be, were
she near me ; it is far better for all of you that
you should never see me again. For myself, I will
not voluntarily seek death, that is, I will not, while
I can command myself ; and I can here. But
drag me from this country ; and my power of
self control vanishes, nor can I answer for the
violence my agony of grief may lead me to com-
mit."

"You clothe your meaning, Perdita," I replied,
** in powerful words, yet that meaning is selfish
and unworthy of you. You have often agreed
with me that there is but one solution to the in-
tricate riddle of life ; to improve ourselves, and
contribute to the happiness of others : and now,
in the very prime of life, you desert your prin-
ciples, and shut yourself up in useless solitude.

THE LAST MAN. 101

Will you think of Raymond less at Windsor,
the scene of your early happiness ? Will you
commune less with his departed spirit, while you
watch over and cultivate the rare excellence of
his child? You have been sadly visited; nor
do I wonder that a feeling akin to insanity should
drive you to bitter and unreasonable imagin-
ings. But a home of love awaits you in your
native England. My tenderness and affection
must soothe you ; the society of Raymond's
friends will be of more solace than these
dreary speculations. We will all make it our
first care, our dearest task, to contribute to your
happiness,"

Perdita shook her head ; " If it could be so,"
she replied, " I were much in the wrong to
disdain your offers. But it is not a matter of
choice ; I can live here only. I am a part of
this scene ; each and all its properties are a part
of me. This is no sudden fancy ; I live by it.
The knowledge that I am here, rises with me in
the morning, and enables me to endure the

102 THE LAST MAN.

light ; it is mingled with my food, which else
were poison ; it walks, it sleeps with me, for
ever it accompanies me. Here I may even
cease to repine, and may add my tardy consent
to the decree which has taken him from me.
He would rather have died such a death, which
will be recorded in history to endless time, than
have lived to old age unknown, unhonoured.
Nor can I desire better, than, having been the
chosen and beloved of his heart, here, in youth's
prime, before added years can tarnish the best
feelings of my nature, to watch his tomb, and^
speedily rejoin him in his blessed repose.

^' So much, my dearest Lionel, I have said,
wishing to persuade you that I do right. If
you are unconvinced, I can add nothing further
I)y way of argument, and I can only declare my
fixed resolve. I stay here; force only can re-
move me. Be it so ; drag me away — I return ;
confine me, imprison me, still I escape, and come
here. Or would my brother rather devote the
heart-broken Perdita to the straw and chains of

THE LAST MAN. 103

a maniac, than suffer her to rest in peace beneath
the shadow of His society, in this my own selected
and beloved recess ?^' —

All this appeared to me, I own, methodized
madness. I imagined, that it was my imperative
duty to take her from scenes that thus forcibly
reminded her of her loss. Nor did I doubt, that
in the tranquillity of our family circle at Windsor,
she would recover some degree of composure,
and in the end, of happiness. IMy affection for
Clara also led me to oppose these fond dreams of
cherished grief ; her sensibility had already been
too much excited ; her infant heedlessness too
soon exchanged for deep and anxious thought.
The strange and romantic scheme of her mother,
might confirm and perpetuate the painful view of
life, which had intruded itself thus early on her
contemplation.

On returning home, the captain of the steam
packet with whom I had agreed to sail, came to
tell me, that accidental circumstances hastened
his departure, and that, if I went with him, I

104 THE LAST MAN.

must come on board at five on the following
morning. I hastily gave my consent to this
arrangement, and as hastily formed a plan
through which Perdita should be forced to be-
come my companion. I believe that most people
in my situation would have acted in the same
manner. Yet this consideration does not, or
rather did not in after time, diminish the re-
proaches of my conscience. At the moment, I
felt convinced that I was acting for the best, and
that all I did was right and even necessary.

I sat with Perdita and soothed her, by my
seeming assent to her wild scheme. She received
my concurrence with pleasure, and a thousand
times over thanked her deceiving, deceitful
brother. As night came on, her spirits, en-
livened by my unexpected concession, regained
an almost forgotten vivacity. I pretended to
be alarmed by the feverish glow in her cheek ;
I entreated her to take a composing draught ;
I poured out the medicine, which she took
docilely from me. I watched her as she drank

THE LAST MAN. 105

it. Falsehood and artifice are in themselves so
hateful, that, though I still thought I did right,
a feeling of shame and guilt came painfully upon
me. I left her, and soon heard that she slept
soundly under the influence of the opiate I had
administered. She was carried thus unconscious
on board ; the anchor weighed, and the wind
being favourable, we stood far out to sea ; with
all the canvas spread, and the power of the en-
gine to assist, we scudded swiftly and steadily
through the chafed element.

It was late in the day before Perdita
awoke, and a longer time elapsed before re-
covering from the torpor occasioned by the
laudanum, she perceived her change of situa-
tion. She started wildly from her couch, and
flew to the cabin window. The blue and
troubled sea sped past the vessel, and was spread
shoreless around : the sky was covered by a
rack, which in its swift motion shewed how
speedily she was borne away. The creaking of
the masts, the clang of the wheels^ the tramp
F 3

106 THE LAST MAN.

above, all persuaded her that she was ah-eady
far from the shores of Greece. — " Where are
we ?" she cried, " where are we going P'' —

The attendant whom I had stationed to watch
her, rephed, " to England." —

" And my brother ?"" —

" Is on deck, Madam."

'' Unkind ! unkind !'' exclaimed the poor vic-
tim, as with a deep sigh she looked on the waste
of waters. Then without further remark, she
threw herself on her couch, and closing her eyes
remained motionless; so that but for the deep
sighs that burst from h6r, it would have seemed
that she slept.

As soon as I heard that she had spoken, I
sent Clara to her, that the sight of the lovely
innocent might inspire gentle and affectionate
thoughts. But neither the presence of her
child, nor a subsequent visit from me, could rouse
my sister. She looked on Clara with a counte-
nance of woful meaning, but she did not speak.
When I appeared, she turned away, and in re-

THE LAST MAN. 107

ply to iny enquiries, only said, '^ You know
not what you have done !" — I trusted that this
sullenness betokened merely the struggle between
disappointment and natural affection, and that
in a few days she would be reconciled to her
fate.

When night came on, she begged that Clara
might sleep in a separate cabin. Her servant,
however, remained with her. About midnight
she spoke to the latter, saying that she had had
a bad dream, and bade her go to her daughter,
and bring word whether she rested quietly.
The woman obeyed.

The breeze, that had flagged since sunset,
now rose again. I was on deck, enjoying our
sw^ift progress. The quiet was disturbed only
by the rush of waters as they divided before
the steady keel, the murmur of the moveless
and full sails, the wind whistling in the shrouds,
and the regular motion of the engine. The sea
was gently agitated, now shewing a white crest,
and now resuming an uniform hue ; the clouds

108 THE LAST MAN.

had disappeared ; and dark ether dipt the broad
ocean, in which the constellations vainly sought
their accustomed mirror. Our rate could not
have been less than eight knots.

Suddenly I heard a splash in the sea. The
sailors on watch rushed to the side of the vessel,
with the cry — some one gone overboard. *' It
is not from deck,"" said the man at the helm,
'^ something has been thrown from the aft cabin."
A call for the boat to be lowered was echoed
from the deck. I rushed into my sister's cabin;
it was empty.

With sails abaft, the engine stopt, the vessel
remained unwillingly stationary, until, after an
hour's search, my poor Perdita was brought on
board. But no care could re-animate her, no
medicine cause her dear eyes to open, and the
blood to flow again from her pulseless heart.
One clenched hand contained a slip of paper, on
which was written, " To Athens." To ensure
her lemoval thiiher, and prevent the irrecover-
able loss of her body in the wide sea, she had

THE LAST MAN. 109

had the precaution to fasten a long shawl round
her waist, and again to the staunchions of the
cabin window. She had drifted somewhat under
the keel of the vessel, and her being out of
sight occasioned the delay in finding her. And
thus the ill-starred girl died a victim to my
senseless rashness. Thus, in early day, fehe left
us for the company of the dead, and preferred
to share the rocky grave of Raymond, before the
animated scene this cheerful earth afforded, and
the society of loving friends. Thus in her
twenty-ninth year she died ; having enjoyed
some few years of the happiness of paradise, and
sustaining a reverse to which her impatient
spirit and affectionate disposition were unable to
submit. As I marked the placid expression that
had settled on her countenance in death, I felt,
in spite of the pangs of remorse, in spite of heart-
rending regret, that it was better to die so,
than to diag on long, miserable years of repining
and inconsolable grief.

110 THE LAST MAN.

Stress of weather drove us up the Adriatic
Gulph ; and, our vessel being hardly fitted to
weather a storm, we took refuge in the port of
Ancona. Here I met Georgio Palli, the vice-
admiral of the Greek fleet, a former friend and
warm partizan of Raymond. I committed the
remains of my lost Perdita to his care, for the pur-
]X)se of having them transported to Hymettus,
and placed in the cell her Raymond already
occupied beneath the pyramid. This was all
accomplished even as I wished. She reposed
beside her beloved, and the tomb above was in-
scribed with the united nslues of Raymond and
Perdita.

I dien came to a resolution of pursuing our
journey to England overland. My own heart
was racked by regrets and remorse. The appre-
hension, that Raymond had departed for ever,
that his name, blended eternally with the past,
must be erased from every anticipation of the
future, had come slowly upon me. I had al-

THE LAST UAK. Ill

ways admired his talents ; his noble aspirations ;
his grand conceptions of the glory and majesty
of his ambition : his utter want of mean pas-
sions; his fortitude and daring. Tn Greece I
had learnt to love him ; his very wayv ardness,
and self-abandonment to the impulses of super-
stition, attached me to him doubly ; it miglit be
weakness, but it was the antipodes of all that was
grovelling and selfish. To these pangs were
added the loss of Perdita, lost through my own
accursed self-will and conceit. This dear one,
my sole relation ; whose progress I had marked
from tender childhood through the varied path
of life, and seen her throughout conspicuous for
integrity, devotion, and true affection ; for all
that constitutes the peculiar graces of the female
character, and beheld her at last the victim of
too much loving, too constant an attachment to
theperishable and lost, she, in her pride of beauty
and life, had thrown aside the pleasant percep-
tion of the apparent world for the unreality of
the grave, and had left poor Clara quite an

lis THE LAST MAN.

orphan. I concealed from this beloved child
that her mother's death was voluntary, and
tried every means to awaken cheerfulness in
her sorrow-stricken spirit.

One of my first acts for the recovery even of
my own composure, was to bid farewell to the
sea. Its hateful splash renewed again and again
to my sense the death of my sister ; its roar was
a dirge ; in every dark hull that was tossed on
its inconstant bosom, I imaged a bier, that
would convey to death all who trusted to its
treacherous smiles. Farewell to the sea ! Come,
my Clara, sit beside me in this aerial bark ;
quickly and gently it cleaves the azure serene,
and with soft undulation glides upon the cur-
rent of the air ; or, if storm shake its fragile
mechanism, the green earth is below ; we can
descend, and take shelter on the stable continent.
Here aloft, the companions of the swift-winged
birds, we skim through the unresisting element,
fleetly and fearlessly. The light boat heaves
not, nor is opposed by death-bearing waves ;

THE LAST MAN. 113

the ether opens before the prow, and the shadow
of the globe that upholds it, shelters us from
the noon-day sun. Beneath are the plains of
Italy, or the vast undulations of the wave-like
Apennines : fertility reposes in their many folds,
and woods crown the summits. The free and
happy peasant, unshackled by the Austrian,
bears the double harvest to the garner ; and the
refined citizens rear without dread the long
blighted tree of knowledge in this garden of
the world. We were lifted above the Alpine
peaks, and from their deep and brawling ravines
entered the plain of fair France, and after an
airy journey of six days, we landed at Dieppe,
furled the feathered wings, and closed the silken
globe of our little pinnace. A heavy rain made
this mode of travelling now incommodious ; so we
embarked in a steam-packet, and after a short
passage landed at Portsmouth.

A strange story was rife here. A few days
before, a tempest-struck vessel had appeared oiF
the town : the hull was parched-looking and

114* THE LAST MAN.

cracked, the sails rent, and bent in a careless^
unseamanlike manner, the shrouds tangled and
broken. She drifted towards the harbour, and
was stranded on the sands at the entrance* In
the morning the custom-house officers, together
with a crowd of idlers, visited her. One only
of the crew appeared to have arrived with her»
He had got to shore, and had walked a few
paces towards the town, and then, vanquished by
malady and approaching death, had fallen on
the inhospitable beach. He was found stiff, his
hands clenched, and pressed against his breast.
His skin, nearly black, his matted hair and
bristly beard, were signs of a long protracted
misery. It was whispered that he had died of
the plague. No one ventvu'ed on board the ves-
sel, and strange sights were averred to be seen
at night, walking the deck, and hanging on the
masts and shrouds. She soon went to pieces ;
I was shewn where she had been, and saw her
disjoined timbers tossed on the waves. The
bod}' of the man who had landed, had been

THE LAST MAN. 115

buried deep in the sands ; and none could tell
more, than that the vessel was American built,
and that several months before the Fortunatus
had sailed from Philadelphia, of which no
tidings were afterwards received.

116 THE LAST MAN.

CHAPTER IV.

I RETUKNEB to my family estate in the autumn
of the year 209^. My heart had long been with
them ; and I felt sickwith the hope and delight
of seeing them again. The district which con-
tained them appeared the abode of every kindly
spirit. Happiness, love and peace, walked the
forest paths, and tempered the atmosphere.
After all the agitation and sorrow I had endured
in Greece, I sought Windsor, as the storm-driven
bird does the nest in which it may fold its wings
in tranquillity.

How unwise had the wanderers been, who had
deserted its shelter, entangled themselves in
the web of society, and entered on what men of

THE LAST MAN. 117

the world call "life/' — that labyrinth of evil,
that scheme of mutual torture. To live, accord-
ing to this sense of the word, we must not only
observe and learn, we must also feel ; we must
not be mere spectators of action, we must act ;
we must not describe, but be subjects of descrip-
tion. Deep sorrow must have been the inmate
of our bosoms ; fraud must have lain in wait for
us; the artful must have deceived us; sickening
doubt and false hope must have chequered our
days; hilarity and joy, that lap the soul in
ecstasy, must at times have possessed us. Who
that knows what " life" is, would pine for this
feverish species of existence ? I have lived. I
have spent days and nights of festivity ; I have
joined in ambitious hopes, and exulted in victory:
now, — shut the door on the world, and build
high the wall that is to separate me from the
troubled scene enacted within its precincts. Let
us live for each other and for happiness ; let us
seek peace in our dear home, near the inland
murmur of streams, and the gracious waving of

118 THE LAST MAX.

trees, the beauteous vesture of earth, and sub-
lime pageantry of the skies. Let us leave **Hfe,"
that we may hve.

Idris was well content with this resolve of
mine. Her native sprightliness needed no undue
excitement^ and her placid heart reposed con-
tented on my love, the well-being of her children,
and the beauty of surrounding nature. Her
pride and blameless ambition was to create smiles
in all around her, and to shed repose on the fra-
gile existence of her brother. In spite of her
tender nursing, the health of Adrian perceptibly
declined. Walking, riding, the common occu-
pations of life, overcame him : he felt no pain,
but seemed to tremble for ever on the verge of
annihilation. Yet, as he had lived on for months
nearly in the same state, he did not inspire us
with any immediate fear ; and, though he talked
of death as an event most familiar to his thoughts,
he did not cease to exert himself to render others
liappy, or to cultivate his own astonishing powers
of mind.

THE LAST MAN. 110

Winter passed away ; and spring, led by the
montlis, awakened life in all nature. The forest
was dressed in green ; the young calves frisked
on the new-sprung grass ; the wind-winged sha-
dows of light clouds sped over the green corn-
fields; the hermit cuckoo repeated his mono-
tonous all-hail to the season; the nightingale,
bird of love and minion of the evening star, filled
the woods with song ; while Venus lingered in
the warm sunset, and the young green of the
trees lay in gentle relief along the clear horizon.

Delight awoke in every heart, delight and
exultation ; for there was peace through all the
world ; the temple of Universal Janus was shut,
and man died not that year by the hand of man.

" Let this last but twelve months," said
Adrian; ''and earth will become a Paradise.
The energies of man were before directed to the
destruction of his species : they now aim at its
liberation and preservation. Man cannot repose,
and his restless aspirations will now bring forth
good instead of evil. The favoured countries

120 THE LAST MAN.

of the south will throw off the iron yoke of ser-
vitude ; poverty will quit us, and with that,
sickness. What may not the forces, never before
united, of liberty and peace achieve in this
dwelling of man ?

*' Dreaming, for ever dreaming, Windsor !"
said RyJand, the old adversary of Raymond,
and candidate for the Protectorate at the ensuing
election. *' Be assured that earth is not, nor
ever can be heaven, while the seeds of hell are
natives of her soil. When the seasons have
become equal, when the air breeds no disorders,
when its surface is no longer liable to blights and
droughts, then sickness will cease ; when men's
passions are dead, poverty will depart. When
love is no longer akin to hate, then brotherhood
will exist: we are very far from that state at
present.*'

" Not so far as you may suppose," observed
a little old astronomer, by name Merrival, " the
poles precede slowl}- , but ecurely ; in an hundred
thousand years — "

THE LAST MAX. 121

^^ We shall all be underground," said Ryland.

" The pole of the earth will coincide with the
pole of the ecliptic," continued the astronomer,
*' an universal spring will be produced, and earth
become a paradise."

'' And we shall of course enjoy the benefit
of the change,"' said Ryland, contemptuously.

" We have strange news here,'' I observed
I had the newspaper in my hand, and, as usual,
had turned to the intelligence from Greece. '" It
seems that the total destruction of Constantinople,
and the supposition that winter had purified the
air of the fallen city, gave the Greeks courage
to visit its site, and begin to rebuild it. But
they tell us that the curse of God is on the place,
for every one who has ventured within the walls
has been tainted by the plague; that this disease
has spread in Thrace and Macedonia ; and now,
fearing the virulence of infection during the
coming heats, a cordon has been drawn on the
frontiers of Thessaly, and a strict quarantine
exacted."

VOL. II. G

123

THE LAST MAX.

This intelligence brought us back from the
prospect of paradise, held out after the lapse of
an hundred thousand years, to the pain and
misery at present existent upon earth. We talked
of the ravages made last year by pestilence in
every quarter of the world ; and of the dreadful
consequences of a second visitation. We dis-
cussed the best means of preventing infection,
and of preserving health and activity in a large
city thus afflicted — London, for instance. Mer-
rival did not join in this conversation ; drawing
near Idris, he proceeded to assure her that the
joyful prospect of an earthly paradise after an
hundred thousand years, was clouded to him
by the knowledge that in a certain period of
time after, an earthly hell or purgatory, would
occur, when the ecliptic and equator would be
at right angles.* Our party at length broke
up; " We are all dreaming this morning," said

* See an ingenious Essay, entitled, "The Mythological
Astronomy of the Ancients Demonstrated," by Mackey, a
shoeinaker, of Norwich printed in 1832,

THE LAST MAN. 123

Ryland, " it is as wise to discuss the probability
of a visitation of the plague in our well-governed
metropolis, as to calculate the centuries which
must escape before we can grow pine-apples here
in the open air."

But, though it seemed absurd to calculate upon
the arrival of the plague in London, I could not
reflect without extreme pain on the desolation
this evil would cause in Greece. The English
for the most part talked of Thrace and Mace-
donia, as they would of a lunar territory, which,
unknown to them, presented no distinct idea or
interest to the minds. I had trod the soil. The
faces of many of the inhabitants were familiar to
me ; in the towns, plains, hills, and defiles of
these countries, I had enjoyed unspeakable
delight, as I journied through them the year
before. Some romantic village, some cottage,
or elegant abode there situated, inhabited
by the lovely and the good, rose before my
mental sight, and the question haunted me, is
the plague there also .^~ That same invincible
g2

124 THE LAST MAN.

monster, which hovered over and devoured Con-
stantinople — that fiend more cruel than tempest,
less tame than fire, is, alas, unchained in that
beautiful country — these reflections would not
allow me to rest.

The political state of England became agitated
as the time drew near when the new Protector
was to be elected. This event excited the more
interest, since it was the current report, that
if the popular candidate (Ryland) should be
chosen, the question of the abolition of hereditary
rank, and other feudal relics, would come under
tJie consideration of parliament. Not a word had
been spoken during the present session on any
of these topics. Every thing would depend
upon the choice of a Protector, and the elections
of the ensuing year. Yet this very silence was
awful, shewing the deep weight attributed to
the question ; the fear of either party to hazard
an ilLtimed attack, and the expectation of a
furious contention when it should beein.

But although St. Stephen's did not ec\\o with

THE LAST MAN. 125

the voice which filled each heart, the newspapers
teemed with nothing else ; and in private com-
panies the conversation however remotely begun,
soon verged towards this central point, while
voices were lowered and chairs drawn closer. The
nobles did not hesitate to express their fear ; the
other party endeavoured to treat the matter
lightly. " Shame on the country," said Ry-
land, " to lay so much stress upon words
and frippery ; it is a question of nothing ; of
the new painting of carriage-pannels and the
embroidery of footmen's coats."

Yet could England indeed doff her lordly
trappings, and be content with the democratic
style of America? Were the pride of ancestry,
tlie patrician spirit, the gentle courtesies and re-
fined pursuits, splendid attributes of rank, to be
erased among us ? We were told that this would
not be the case ; that we were by nature a poeti-
cal people, a nation easily duped by words,
ready to array clouds in splendour, and bestow
iionour on the dust. This spirit we could never

126 THE LAST MAN.

lose ; and it was to diffuse this concentrated
spirit of birth, that the new law was to be
brought foward. We were assured that, when
the name and title of Englishman was the sole
patent of nobility, we should all be noble ; that
when no man born under English sway, felt
another his superior in rank, courtesy and re-
finement would become the birth-right of all our
countrymen. Let not England be so far dis-
graced, as to have it imagined that it can be
without nobles, nature's true nobility, who bear
theirpatent in their mien, who are from their cradle
elevated above the rest of their species, because
they are better than the rest. Among a race of
independent, and generous, and well educated
men, in a country where the imagination is
empress of men's minds, there needs be no fear
that we should want a perpetual succession of
the high-born and lordly. That party, however,
could hardly yet be considered a minority in the
kingdom, who extolled the ornament of the
column, " the Corinthian capital of polished

THE LAST MAX. 127

society;" they appealed to prejudices without
number, to old attachments and young hopes ;
to the expectation of thousands who might one
day become peers ; they set up as a scarecrow,
the spectre of all that was sordid, mechanic and
base in the commercial republics.

The plague had come to Athens. Hundreds
of English residents returned to their own
country. Raymond's beloved Athenians, the
free, the noble people of the divinest town in
Greece, fell like ripe corn before the merciless
sickle of the adversary. Its pleasant places were
deserted ; its temples and palaces were converted
into tombs ; its energies, bent before towards the
highest objects of human ambition, w^ere now
^ forced to converge to one point, the guarding
against the innumerous arro^^s of the plague.

At any other time this disaster would have
excited extreme compassion among us ; but it
was now passed over, while each mind was en.
gaged by the coming controversy. It was not
so with me ; and the question of ^ rank and right

1^8 THE LAST MA>J.

dwindled to insignificance in my eyes, when I
pictured the scene of suffering Athens. I heard
of the death of only sons ; of wives and hus-
bands most devoted ; of the rending of ties
twisted with the heart's fibres, of friend losing
friend, and young mothers mourning for their
first born ; and these moving incidents were
grouped and painted in my mind by the know-
ledge of the persons, by my esteem and affection
for the sufferers. It was the admirers, friends,
fellow soldiers of Raymond, families that
had welcomed Perdita to Greece, and lamented
with her the loss of her lord, that were swept
away, and went to dwell with them in the un-
distinguishing tomb.

The plague at Athens had been preceded
and caused by the contagion from the East ;
and the scene of havoc and death continued to
be acted there, on a scale of fearful magnitude.
A hope that the visitation of the present year
would prove the last, kept up the spirits of the
merchants connected with these countries j but

THE LAST MAN. 129

tlie inhabitants were driven to despair, or to a
resignation which, arising from fanaticism, as-
sumed the same dark hue. America had also
received the taint ; and, were it yellow fever or
plague, the epidemic was gifted with a virulence
before unfelt. The devastation was not confined
to the towns, but spread throughout the coun-
try ; the hunter died in the woods, the peasant
in the corn-fields, and the fisher on his native
waters.

A strange story was brought to us from the
East, to which little credit would have been
given, had not the fact been attested by a mul-
titude of witnesses, in various parts of the
world. On the twenty-first of June, it was said
that an hour before noon, a black sun arose : an
orb, the size of that luminary, but dark, defined,
whose beams were shadows, ascended from the
\vest ; in about an hour it had reached the
meridian, and eclipsed the bright parent of
day. Night fell upon every country, night,

130 THE LAST MAN.

sudden, rayless, entire. The stars came out,
shedding their ineffectual gUmnieiings on the
light-widowed earth. But soon the dim orb
passed from over the sun, and Hngered down
the eastern heaven. As it descended, its dusky
rays crossed the brilUant ones of the sun, and
deadened or distorted them. The shadows of
things assumed strange and ghastly shapes. The
wild animals in the woods took fright at the
unknown shapes figured on the ground. They
fled they knew not whither; and the citizens
were filled with greater dread, at the convulsion
which " shook lions into civil streets C — birds,
strong-winged eagles, suddenly blinded, fell in
the market-places, while owls and bats shewed
themselves welcoming the early night. Gra-
dually the object of fear sank beneath the
horizon, and to the last shot up shadowy beams
into the otherwise radiant air. Such was the
tale sent us from Asia, from the eastern extre-
mity of Europe, and from Africa as far west as
the Golden Coast.

THE LAST MAN. l3l

Whether this story were tri>e or not, the
effects were certain. Through Asia, from the
banks of the Nile to the shores of the Caspian,
from the Hellespont even to the sea of Omar,
a sudden panic was driven. The men filled the
mosques ; the women, veiled, hastened to the
tombs, and carried offerings to the dead, thus
to preserve the living. The plague was forgot-
ten, in this new fear which the black sun had
spread ; and^ though the dead multiplied, and
the streets of Ispahan, of Pekin, and of Delhi
were strewed with pestilence-struck corpses,
men passed on, gazing on the ominous sky.
regardless of the death beneath their feet. The
christians sought their churches, — christian
maidens, even at the feast of roses, clad in
white, with shining veils, sought, in long pro-
cession, the places consecrated to their religion,
filling the air with their hymns ; while, ever and
anon, from the hps of some poor mourner in llie
crowd, a voice of wailing burst, and the rest
looked up, fancying they could discern the sweep-

132 THE LAST MAN.

ing wings of angels, who passed over the earth,
lamenting the disasters about to fall on man.

In the sunny clime of Persia, in the crowded
cities of China, amidst the aromatic groves of
Cashmere, and along the southern shores of the
Mediterranean, such scenes had place. Even in
Greece the tale of the sun of darkness cncreased
the fears and despair of the dying multitude.
We, in our cloudy isle, were far removed from
danger, and the only circumstance that brought
these disasters at all home to us, was the daily
arrival of vessels from the east, crowded with
emigrants, mostly English; for the Moslems,
though the fear of death was spread keenly
among them, still clung together ; that, if they
were to die (and if they were, death would as
readily meet them on the homeless sea, or in far
England, as in Persia,)— if they were to die, their
bones might rest in earth made sacred by the
relics of true believers. Mecca had never be-
fore been so crowded with pilgrims ; yet the
Arabs neglected to pillage the caravans, but.

THE LAST MAN. 133

humble and weaponless, they joined the pro-
cession, praying Mahomet to avert plague from
their tents and deserts.

I cannot describe the rapturous delight with
which I turned from political brawls at home,
and the physical evils of distant countries, to
my own dear home, to the selected abode of
goodness and love ; to peace, and the interchange
of every sacred sympathy. Had I never quitted
Windsor, these emotions would not have been
so intense ; but I had in Greece been the prey of
fear and deplorable change ; in Greece, after a
period of anxiety and sorrow, I had seen depart
two, whose very names were the symbol of
greatness and virtue. But such miseries could
never intrude upon the domestic circle left to
me, while, secluded in our beloved forest, we
passed our lives in tranquiUity. Some small
change indeed the progress of years brought here ;
and time, as it is wont, stamped the traces of
mortality on our pleasures and expectations.

134 THE LAST MAN.

Idris, the most affectionate wife, sister and
friend, was a tender and loving mother. The
feehng was not with her as with many, a pastime ;
it was a passion. We had had three children ;
one, the second in age, died while I was in
"Greece. This had dashed the triumphant and
rapturous emotions of maternity with grief and
fear. Before this event, the little beings, sprung
from herself, the young heirs of her transient
life, seemed to have a sure lease of existence ;
now she dreaded that the pitiless destroyer might
snatch her remaining darlings, as it had snatched
their brother. The least illness caused throes of
terror ; she was miserable if she were at all ab-
sent from them ; her treasure of happiness she
had garnered in their fragile being, and kept for-
ever on the watch, lest the insidious thief should
as before steal th^se valued gems. She had for-
tunately small cause for fear. Alfred, now nine
years old, was an upright, manly little fellow,
with radiant brow, soft eyes, and gentle, though
independent disposition. Our youngest was yet

THE LAST MAN. l35

in infancy ; but his downy cheek was sprinkled
with the roses of healthy and his unwearied viva*
city filled our halls with innocent laughter.

Clara had passed the age which, from its mute
ignorance, was the source of the fears of Idris.
C/lara was dear to her, to all. There was so
much intelligence combined with innocence, sen-
sibility with forbearance, and seriousness with
perfect good-humour, a beauty so transcendant,
united to such endearing simplicity, that she
hung like a pearl in the shrine of our posses-
sions, a treasure of wonder and excellence

At the beginning of winter our Alfred, now
nine years of age, first went to school at Eton.
This appeared to him the priniary step towards
manhood, and he was proportionably pleased>
Community of study and amusement developed
the best parts of his character, his steady per-
severance, generosity, and well-governed firm-
ness. What deep and sacred emotions are ex-
cited in a father's bosom^ when he first becomes
convinced that his love for his child is not a

186 THE LAST MAN.

mere instinct, but worthily bestowed, and that
others, less akin, participate his approbation !
It was supreme happiness to Idris and my-
self, to find that the frankness which Alfred's
open brow indicated, the intelligence of his eyes,
the tempered sensibility of his tones, were not
delusions, but indications of talents and virtues,
which would " grow with his growth, and
strengthen with his strength.'' At this period,
the termination of an animal's love for its off-
spring,— the true affection of the human parent
commences. We no longer look on this dearest
part of ourselves, as a tender plant which we
must cherish, or a plaything for an idle hour.
We build now on his intellectual faculties, we
establish our hopes on his moral propensities.
His weakness still imparts anxiety to this feeling,
his ignorance prevents entire intimacy ; but we
begin to respect the future man, and to endea-
vour to secure his esteem, even as if he were our
equal. What can a parent have more at heart
than the good opinion of his child ? In all our

THE LAST MAN. 137

transactions with liirn our honour must be in-
violate) the integrity of our relations untainted :
fate and circumstance may, when he arrives at
maturity, separate us for ever — but, as his aegis
in danger, his consolation in hardship, let the
ardent youth for ever bear with him through the
rough path of life, love and honour for his
parents.

We had lived so long in the vicinity of Eton,
that its population of young folks was well
known to us. Many of them had been Alfred's
playmates, before they became his school-fellows.
We now watched this youthful congregation
with redoubled interest. We marked the difter-
ence of character among the boys, and endea-
voured to read the future man in the stripling.
There is nothing more lovely, to which the heart
more yearns than a free-spirited boy, gentle,
brave, and generous. Several of the Etonians
had these characteristics ; all were distinguished
by a sense of honour, and spirit of enterprize ; in
gome, as they verged towards manhood, this de-.

138 THE LAST MAN.

generated into presumption; but the younger
ones, lads a little older than our own, were con-
spicuous for their gallant and sweet dispositions.
Here were the future governors of England ;
the men, who, when our ardour was cold, and
our projects completed or destroyed for ever,
when, our drama acted, we doffed the garb of
the hour, and assumed the uniform of age, or of
more equalizing death; here were the beings
who were to carry on the vast machine of society ;
here were the lovers, husbands, fathers ; here the
landlord, the politician, the soldier ; some fancied
that they were even now ready to appear on the
stage, eager to make one among the dramatis
personag of active life. It was not long since I
was like one of these beardless aspirants ; when
my boy shall have obtained the place I now
hold, I shall have tottered into a grey-headed,
wrinkled old man. Strange system ! riddle of
the Sphynx, most awe-striking ! that thus man
remains, while we the individuals pass away.
Such is, to borrow the words of an eloquent

THE LAST MAN. 139

and philosophic writer, " the mode of existence
decreed to a permanent body composed of tran-
sitory parts; wherein, by the disposition of a
stupendous wisdom, moulding together the great
mysterious incorporation of the human race, the
whole, at one time, is never old, or middle-aged,
or young, but, in a condition of unchangeable
constancy, moves on through the varied tenour
of perpetual decay, fall, renovation, and pro-
gression."*

Willingly do I give place to thee, dear Alfred !
advance, offspring of tender love, child of our
hopes ; advance a soldier on the road to which
I have been the pioneer ! I will make way for
thee. I have already put off the carelessness
of childhood, the unlined brow, and springy
gait of early years, that they may adorn thee.
Advance ; and I will despoil myself still further
for thy advantage. Time shall rob me of the
graces of maturity, shall take the fire from my

• Burke's Reflections on the French Revolution.

140 THE LAST MAN.

eves, and agility from my limbs, shall steal the
better part of life, eager expectation and passion-
ate love, and shower them in double portion on
thy dear head. Advance ! avail thyself of the
gift, thou and thy comrades ; and in the drama
you are about to act, do not disgrace those who
taught you to enter on the stage, and to pro-
nounce becomingly the parts assigned to you !
May your progress be uninterrupted and se-
cure ; born during the spring-tide of the hopes
of man, may you lead up the summer to which
no winter may succeed !

THE LAST MAN. 14X

CHAPTER V.

Some disorder had surely crept into the course
of the elements, destroying their benignant in-
fluence. The wind, prince of air, raged through
his kingdom, lashing the sea into fury, and sub-
duing the rebel earth into some sort of obedience.

The God sends down his angry plagues from high.

Famine and pestilence in heaps they die.

Again in vengeance of his wrath he falls

On their great hosts, and breaks their tottering walls ;

Arrests their navies on the ocean's plain,

And whelms their strength with mountains of the main.*

♦ Elton's translation of Hesiod's Works.

142 THE LAST MAN.

Their deadly power shook the flourishing coun-
tries of the south, and during winter, even, we,
in our northern retreat, began to quake under
their ill effects.

That fable is unjust, which gives the superiority
to the sun over the wind. Who has not seen
the lightsome earth, the balmy atmosphere, and
basking nature become dark, cold and ungenial,
when the sleeping wind has awoke in the east ?
Or, when the dun clouds thickly veil the sky,
while exhaustless stores of rain are poured down,
until, the dank earth refusing to imbibe the su-
perabundant moisture, it Kes in pools on the
surface ; when the torch of day seems like a
meteor, to be quenched ; who has not seen the
cloud-stirring north arise, the streaked blue
appear, and soon an opening made in the va-
pours in the eye of the wind, through which
the bright azure shines ? The clouds become
thin ; an arch is formed for ever rising upwards,
till, the universal cope being unveiled, the sun

THE LAST MAN. 143

pours forth its rays, re-animated and fed by the
breeze.

Then mighty art thou, O wind, to be throned
above all other vicegerents of nature's power ;
whether thou comest destroying from the east,
or pregnant with elementary life from the west ;
thee the clouds obey; the sun is subservient
to thee ; the shoreless ocean is thy slave ! Thou
sweepest over the earth, and oaks, the growth
of centuries, submit to thy viewless axe ; the
snow-drift is scattered on the pinnacles of the
Alps, the avalanche thunders down their vallies.
Thou boldest the keys of the frost, and canst
first chain and then set free the streams ; under
thy gentle governance the buds and leaves are
born, they flourish nursed by thee.

Why dost thou howl thus, O wind ? By day
and by night for four long months thy roarings
have not ceased — the shores of the sea are strewn
with wrecks, its keel- welcoming surface has become
impassable, the earth has shed her beauty in
obedience to thv command; the frail balloon

144 THE LAST MAN.

dares no longer sail on the agitated air ; thy
ministers, the clouds, deluge the land with rain ;
rivers forsake their banks ; the wild torrent tears
up the mountain path ; plain and wood, and
verdant dell are despoiled of their loveliness ;
our very cities are wasted by thee. Alas, what
will become of us ? It seems as if the giant
waves of ocean, and vast arms of the sea, were
about to wrench the deep-rooted island from its
centre ; and cast it, a ruin and a wreck, upon
the fields of the Atlantic.

What are we, the inhabitants of this globe, least
among the many that people infinite space? Our
minds embrace infinity; the visible mechanism of
our being is subject to merest accident. Day
by day we are forced to believe this. Ke whom
a scratch has disorganized, he who disappears
from apparent life under the influence of the
hostile agency at work around us, had the same
powers as I — I also am subject to the same
laws. In the face of all this we call ourselves
lords of the creation, wielders of the elements.

THE LAST MAN. 145

masters of life and death, and we allege in
excuse of this arrogance, that though the indi-
vidual is destroyed, man continues for ever.

Thus, losing our identity, that of which we
are chiefly conscious, we glory in the continuity
of our species, and learn to regard death without
terror. But when any N-shole nation becomes
the victim of the destructive powers of exterior
agents, then indeed man shrinks into insignifi-
cance, he feels his tenure of life insecure, his
inheritance on earth cut ofE

I remember, after having witnessed the de-
structive effects of a fire, I could not even
behold a small one in a stove, without a sensation
of fear. The mounting flames had curled round
the building, as it fell, and was destroyed. They
insinuated themselves into the substances about
them, and the impediments to their progress
yielded at their touch. Could we take integral
parts of this power, and not be subject to its
operation ? Could we domesticate a cub of

VOL. II.. H

14(> THE LAST MAlsT.

this wild beast, and not fear its growth and
maturity ?

Thus we began to feel, with regard to many-
visaged death let loose on the chosen districts of
our fair habitation, and above all, ^vith regard
to the plague. We feared the coming summer.
Nations, bordering on the already infected
countries, began to enter upon serious plans for
the better keeping out of the enemy. We, a
commercial people, were obh'ged to bring such
schemes under consideration ; and the question
of contagion became matter of earnest disquisi--
tion.

That the plague was not what is commonly
called contagious, like the scarlet fever, or ex-
tinct small-pox, was proved. It was called aa
epidemic. But the grand question was still un-
settled of how this epidemic was generated
and increased. If infection depended upon
the air, the air was subject to infection.
As for instance, a typhus fever has been
brought by ships to one sea-port town ; yet the

THE LAST MAX. 147

very people who brought it there, were incapable
of communicating it in a town more fortunately
situated. But how are we to judge of airs, and
pronounce — in such a city plague will die un-
productive; in such another, nature has provided
for it a plentiful harvest ? In the same w^ay,
individuals may escape ninety- nine times, and
receive the death-blow at the hundredth ;
because bodies are sometimes in a state to reject
the infection of malady, and at others, thirsty
to imbibe it. These reflections made our legisla-
tors pause, before they could decide on the law^s
to be put in force. The evil was so wide-spread*
ing, so violent and immedicable, that no care, no
prevention could be judged superfluous, which
even added a chance to our escape.

These were questions of prudence ; there was
no immediate necessity for an earnest caution.
England w^as still secure. France, Germany,
Italy and Spain, were interposed, walls yet with-
out a breach, between us and the plague. Our
vessels truly w^ere the sport of winds and waves,
h2

148 THE LAST MAK.

even as Gulliver was the toy of the Brobdigna^
gians ; but sv^e on our stable abode could not be
hurt in life or limb by these eruptions of nature.
We could not fear — we did not. Yet a feeling of
awe, a breathless sentiment of wonder, a painful
sense of the degradation of humanity, was in-
troduced into every heart. Nature, our mother,
and our friend, had turned on us a brow of
menace. She shewed us plainly, that, though she
permitted us to assign her laws and subdue her
apparent powers, yet, if she put forth but a
finger, we must quake. She could take our
globe, fringed with mountains, girded by the at-
mosphere, containing the condition of our being,
and all that man's mind could invent or his
force achieve ; she could take the ball in hei
hand, and cast it into space, where life would be
drunk up, and man and all his efforts for ever
annihilated.

These speculations were rife among us ; yet
not the less we proceeded in our daily occupa-
tions, and our plans, whose accomplishment

THE LAST MAN. 149

demanded the lapse of many years. No voice
was heard telUng us to hold ! When foreign
distresses came to be felt by us through the
channels of commerce, we set ourselves to apply
remedies. Subscriptions were made for the
emigrants, and merchants bankrupt by the
failure of trade. The English spirit awoke to
its full activity, and, as it had ever done, set it-
self to resist the evil, and to stand in the breach
which diseased nature had suffered chaos and
death to make in the bounds and banks which
had hitherto kept them out.

At the commencement of summer, we began
to feel, that the mischief which had taken place
in distant countries was greater than we had at
first suspected. Quito was destroyed by an
earthquake. Mexico laid waste by the united
effects of storm, pestilence and famine. Crowds
of emigrants inundated the west of Europe; and
our island had become the refuge of thousands.
In the mean time Ryland had been chosen
Protector. He had sought this office with eager-
pess^ under the idea of turning his whole forces

150 THE LAST MAX,

to the suppression of the privileged orders oi
our community. His measures were thwarted,
and his schemes interrupted by this new state of
things. Many of the foreigners were utterly
destitute ; and their increasing numbers at length
forbade a recourse to the usual modes of relief.
Trade was stopped by the failure of the inter-
change of cargoes usual between us, and America,
India, Egypt and Greece. A sudden break
was made in the routine of our lives. In vain
our Protector and his partizans sought to conceal
this truth ; in vain, day after day, he appointed
a period for the discussion of the new laws
concerning hereditary rank and privilege ; in
vain he endeavoured to represent the evil as
partial and temporary. These disasters came
home to so many bosoms, and, through the various
channels of commerce, were carried so entirely
into every class and division of the community;
that of necessity they became the first question in
the state, the chief subjects to which we must
turn our attention.

Can it be true, each asked the other with

THE LAST MAN, 151

wonder and dismay, that whole countries are
laid waste, whole nations annihilated, by these
disorders in nature? The vast cities of America,
the fertile plains of Hindostan, the crowded
abodes of the Chinese, are menaced with utter
ruin. Where late the busy multitudes assembkd
for pleasure or profit, now only the sound of
wailing and misery is heard. The air is empoi-
soned, and each human being inhales death,
even while in youth and health, their hopes are
in the flower. We called to mind the plague of
1348, when it was calculated that a third of
mankind had been destroyed. As yet western
Europe was uninfected ; would it always be so ?
O, yes, it would — Countrymen, fear not ! In
the still uncultivated wilds of America, what
wonder that among its other giant destroyers.
Plague should be numbered ! It is of old a
native of the East, sister, of the tornado, the
earthquake, and the simoom. Child of the sun,
and nursling of the tropics, it would expire in
these climes. It drinks the dark blood of the

152

THE LAST MAIiT.

inhabitant of the south, but it never feasts oTf
the pale-faced Celt. If perchance some stricken
Asiatic come among us, plague dies with him,
imcommunicated and innoxious. Let us weep
for our brethren, though we can never experience
their reverse. Let us lament over and assist
the children of the garden of the earth. Late
we envied their abodes, their spicy groves, fertile
plains, and abundant loveliness. But in this
mortal life extremes are always matched; the
thorn grows with the rose, the poison tree and
the cinnamon mingle their boughs. Pei'sia, with
its cloth of gold, marble halls, and infinite wealth,
is now a tomb. The tent of the Arab is fallen
in the sands, and his horse spurns the ground
unbridled and unsaddled. The voice of lamen-
tation fills the valley of Cashmere ; its dells and
woods, its cool fountains, and gardens of roses,,
are polluted by the dead; in Circassia and
Georgia the spirit of beauty weeps over the ruin
of its favourite temple — the form of woman.
Our own distresses, though they w^ere occa>^

THE LAST MAN. 155

woned by the fictitious reciprocity of commerce,
encreased in due proportion. Bankers, mer-
chants, and manufacturers, whose trade depended
on exports and interchange of wealth, became
bankrupt. Such things, when they happen
singly, affect only the immediate parties; but
the prosperity of the nation was now shaken by
frequent and extensive losses. Families, bred in
opulence and luxury, were reduced to beggary.
The very state of peace in which we gloried was
injurious ; there v/ere no means of employing
the idle, or of sending any overplus of population
out of the country. Even the source of colonies
was dried up, for in New Holland, Van Diemen's
Land, and the Cape of Good Hope, plague
raged. O, for some medicinal vial to purge un-
wholesome nature, and bring back the earth to
its accustomed health I

Ryland was a man of strong intellects and

quick and sound decision in the usual course of

things, but he stood aghast at I he multitude of

evils that gathered round us. Must he tax the

H 3

154 THE LAST MA:J?,

landed interest to assist our commercial popula-
tion? To do tliisj he must gain the favour of
the chief land-holders, the nobility of the country ;
and these were his vowed enemies — he must
conciliate them by abandoning his favourite
scheme of equalization ; he must confirm them
in their manorial rights ; he must sell bis che-
rished plans for the permanent good of his
country, for temporary relief. He must aim no
more at the dear object of his ambition ; throw-
ing his arms aside, he must for present ends give
up the ultimate object of his endeavours. He
came to Windsor to consult with us. Every day
added to his difficulties ; the arrival of fresh ves-^
sels with emigrants, the total cessation of com-
merce, the starving multitude that thronged
around the palace of the Protectorate, were cir-
cumstances not to be tampered with. The blow
was struck ; the aristocracy obtained all they
wished, and they subscribed to a twelvemonths'
bill, which levied twenty per cent, on all the
rent-rolls of the country.

THE LAST MAN. 155

Calm was now restored to the metropolis, and
to the populous cities, before driven to despera-
tion ; and we returned to the consideration of
distant calamities, wondering if the future would
bring any alleviation to their excess. It was
August ; so there could be small hope of relief
during the heats. On the contrary, the disease
gained virulence,, while starvation did its accus-
tomed work. Thousands died unlamented ; for
beside the yet warm corpse the mourner was
stretched, made mute by death.

On the eighteenth of this month news arrived
in London that the plague was in France and
Italy. These tidings were at first whispered
about town ; but no one dared express aloud the
soul-quailing intelligence. When any one met
a friend in the street, he only cried as he hurried
on, "You know!" — while the other, with an
ejaculation of fear and horror, would answer, —
" What will become of us?'' At length it was
mentioned in the newspapers. The paragraph
was inserted in an obscure part : " We regret

J 56 THE LAST MAtJ.

to state that there can be no longer a doubt of
the plague having been introduced at Leghorn,
Genoa, and Marseilles." No word of comment
followed ; each reader made his own fearful one.
We were as a man who hears that his house is
burning, and yet hurries through the streets,
borne along by a lurking hope of a mistake, till
he turns the corner, and sees his sheltering roof
enveloped in a flame. Before it had been a ru-
mour ; but now in words uneraseable, in definite
and undeniable print, the knowledge went foith.
Its obscurity of situation rendered it the more
conspicuous : the diminutive letters grew gigan-
tic to the bewildered eye of fear : they seemed
graven with a pen of iron, impressed by fire,
woven in the clouds, stamped on the very front
of the universe.

The English, whether travellers or residents,
came pouring in one great revulsive stream, back
on their own country ; and with them crowds of
Italians and Spaniards. Our little island was
filled even to bursting. At first an unusual

THE LAST MAN. 157

quantity of specie made its appearance with the
emigrants ; but these people had no means of
receiving back into their hands what they spent
among us. With the advance of summer, and
the increase of the distemper, rents were un-
paid, and their remittances failed them. It was
impossible to see these crowds of wretched,
perishing creatures, late nurslings of luxury,
and not stretch out a hand to save them. As at
the conclusion of the eighteenth century, the
English unlocked their hospitable store, for the
relief of those driven from their homes by poli-
tical revolution ; so now they were not backward
in affordino: aid to the victims of a more wide-
spreading calamity. We had many foreign
friends whom we eagerly sought out, and relieved
from dreadful penury. Our Castle became an
asylum for the unhappy. A little population
occupied its halls. The revenue of its possessor,
which had always found a mode of expenditure
congenial to his generous nature, was now at-
tended to more parsimoniously, that it might

\BB THE LAST MAK.

embrace a wider portion of utility. It was not
however money, except partially, but the neces-
saries of life, that became scarce. It was difficult
to find an immediate remedy. The usual one
of imports was entirely cut off. In this emergency,
to feed the very people to whom w^e had given
refuge, we were obliged to yield to the plough
and the mattock our pleasure-grounds and parks.
Live stock diminished sensibly in the country,
from the effects of the great demand in the
market. Even the poor deer, our antlered pro-
teges, were obliged to fall for the sake of wor-
thier pensioners. The labour necessary to bring
the lands to this sort of culture, employed and
fed the offcasts of the diminished manufactories.
Adrian did not rest only with the exertions he
could make with regard to his own possessions.
He addressed himself to the wealthy of the land ;
he made proposals in parliament little adapted
to please the rich ; but his earnest pleadings and
benevolent eloquence were irresistible. To give
up their pleasure-grounds to the agriculturist,

THE LAST MAN. 160

to diminish sensibly the number of horses kept
for the purposes of luxury throughout the coun-
try, were means obvious, but unpleasing. Yet,
to the honour of the English be it recorded, that,
although natural disinclination made them delay
awhile, yet when the misery of their fellow-crea-
tures became glaring, an enthusiastic generosity
inspired their decrees. The most luxurious were
often the first to part with their indulgencies.
As is common in communities, a fashion was set.
The high-born ladies of the country would have
deemed themselves disgraced if they had now
enjoyed, what they before called a necessary, the
ease of a carriage. Chairs, as in olden time, and
Indian palanquins were introduced for the infirm;
but else it was nothing singular to see females of
rank going on foot to places of fashionable resort.
It was more common, for all who possessed landed
property to secede to their estates, attended by
whole troops of the indigent, to cut down their
woods to erect temporar}^ dwellings, and to por-
tion out their pai'ks, parterres and flower-gardens,

160 THE LAST MaK.

to necessitous families. Many of these, of high
rank in their own countries, now, with hoe in
hand, turned up the soil. It was found necessary
at last to check the spirit of sacrifice, and to re«
mind those whose generosity proceeded to lavish
waste, that, until the present state of things be-
came permanent, of which there was no likeli-
hood, it was wrong to carry change so far as to
Biake a reaction difficult. Experience demon-
strated that in a year or two pestilence would
cease ; it were well that in the mean time we
should not have destroyed our fine breeds of
horses, or have utterly changed the face of the
ornamented portion of the country.

It may be imagined that things were in a bad
state indeed, before this spirit of benevolence
could have struck such deep roots. The infec-
tion had now spread in the southern provinces
of France. But that country had so many re-
sources in the way of agriculture, that the rush
of population from one part of it to another, and
its increase through foreign emigration, was less

THE LAST MAN. 16 L

felt than with us. The panic struck appeared
of more injury, than disease and its natural con-
comitants.

Winter was hailed, a general and never-failing
physician. The embrowning woods, and swollen
rivers, the evening mists, and morning frosts,
were welcomed with gratitude. The effects of
purifying cold were immediately felt ; and the
lists of mortality abroad were curtailed each
week. Many of our visitors left us : those whose
homes were far in the south, fled delightedly from
our northern winter, and sought their native land,
secure of plenty even after their fearful visitation.
We breathed again. What the coming summer
would bring, we knew not; but the present
months were our own, and our hopes of a cessa-
tion of pestilence were high.

16^2

THF LAST MAN.

CHAPTER VI,

I HAVE lingered thus long on the extreme
bank, the wasting shoal that stretched into the
stream of life, dallying with the shadow of death.
Thus long, 1 have cradled my heart in retro-
spection of past happiness, when hope was.
Why not for ever thus ? I am not immortal ;
and the thread of my history might be spun out
to the limits of my existence. But the same
sentiment that first led me to pourtray scenes
replete with tender recollections, now bids me
hurry on. The same yearning of this warm,
panting heart, that has made me in written
words record my vagabond youth, my serene
manhood, and the passions of my soul, makes

THE LAST MAN. 163

me now recoil from further delay. I must
complete my work.

Here then I stand, as I said, beside the fleet
waters of the flowing years, and now away !
Spread the sail, and strain with oar, hurrying
by dark impending crags, adown steep rapids,
even to the sea of desolation I have reached.
Yet one moment, one brief interval before I
put from shore— once, once again let me fancy
myself as I was in 2094? in my abode at Wind-
sor, let me close my eyes, and imagine that the
immeasurable boughs of its oaks still shadow
me, its castle walls anear. Let fancy pourtray
the joyous scene of the twentieth of June, such
as even now my aching heart recalls it.

Circumstances had called me to London ;
here I heard talk that symptoms of the plague
had occurred in hospitals of that city. I re-
turned to Windsor; my brow was clouded, my
heart heavy ; I entered the Little Park, as was
my custom, at the Frogmore gate, on my way to
the Castle. A great part of these grounds had

W4i THE LAST MA>f.

been given to cultivation, and strips of potatoe-
land and corn were scattered here and there.
The rooks cawed loudly in the trees above ;
mixed with their hoarse cries I heard a lively
strain of music. It vv^as Alfred's birthday. The
young people, the Etonians, and children of the
neighbouring gentry, held a mock fair, to which
all the country people were invited. The park
was speckled by tents, whose flaunting colours
and gaudy flags, waving in the sunshine, added
to the gaiety of the scene. On a platform
erected beneath the terrace, a number of the
younger part of the assembly were dancing. I
leaned against a tree to observe them. The band
played the wild eastern air of Weber introduced
in Abon Hassan ; its volatile notes gave wings
to the feet of the dancers, while the lookers-on
unconsciously beat time. At first the tripping
measure lifted my spirit with it, and for a mo-
ment my eyes gladly followed the mazes of the
dance. The revulsion of thought passed like
keen steel to my heart. Ye are all going to die,

THE LAST MAN. 165

I thought ; already your tomb is built up around
you. Awhile, because you are gifted with agility
and strength, you fancy that you live: but
frail is the " bower of flesh " that encaskets
life ; dissoluble the silver cord that binds you
to it. The joyous soul, charioted from pleasure
to pleasure by the graceful mechanism of well-
formed limbs, will suddenly feel the axle-tree
give way, and spring and wheel dissolve in dust.
Not one of you, O ! fated crowd, can escape— not
one ! not my own ones ! not my Idris and her
babes ! Horror and misery ! Already the gay
dance vanished, the green sward was strewn with
corpses, the blue air above became fetid with
deathly exhalations. Shriek, ye clarions! ye
loud trumpets, howl ! Pile dirge on dirge ;
rouse the funereal chords ; let the air ring with
dire wailing ; let wild discord rush on the wings
of the wind ! Already I hear it, while guardian
angels, attendant on humanity, their task
achieved, hasten away, and their departure is
announced by melancholy sti'ains ; faces all un-

166 THE LAST MAN.

seemly with weeping, forced open my lids ; faster
and faster many groups of these woe-begone^
countenances thronged around, exhibiting every
variety of wretchedness — well known faces min-
gled with the distorted creations of fancy. Ashy
pale, Raymond and Perdita sat apart, looking
on with sad smiles. Adrian's countenance flitted
across, tainted by death — Idris, with eyes lan-
guidly closed and livid lips, was about to slide
into the wide grave. The confusion grew — their
looks of sorrow changed to mockery ; they
nodded their heads in time to the music, whose
clang became maddening.

I felt that this was insanity — I sprang for-
ward to throw it off ; I rushed into the midst of
the crowd. Idris saw me : with light step she
advanced ; as I folded her in my arms, feeling,
as I did, that I thus enclosed what was to me a
world, yet frail as the waterdrop which the
noon-day sun will drink from the water lily^s
cup ; tears filled my eyes, unwont to be thus
moistened. The joyful welcome of my boys,

THE LAST MAN. 167

the soft gratulation of Clara, the pressure of
Adrian's hand, contrihuted to unman me. I
felt that they were near, that they were safe,
yet methought this was all deceit ; — the earth
reeled, the firm-enrooted trees moved— dizziness
came over me — I sank to the ground.

My beloved friends were alarmed— nay, they
expressed their alarm so anxiously, that T dared
not pronounce the word plague, that hovered on
my lips, lest they should construe my perturbed
looks into a symptom, and see infection in my
languor. I had scarcely recovered, and with
feigned hilarity had brought back smiles into
my little circle, when we saw Ryland approach.

Ryland had something the appearance of a
farmer ; of a man whose muscles and full grown
stature had been developed under the influence
of vigorous exercise and exposure to the elements.
This was to a great degree the case : for, though
a large landed proprietor, yet, being a pro-
jector, and of an ardent and industrious dis-
position, he had on his own estate given himself

168 THE LAST MAN.

Up to agricultural labours. When he went as
ambassador to the Northern States of America,
he, for some time, planned his entire migration ;
and went so far as to make several journies far
westward on that immense continent, for the pur-
pose of choosing the site of his new abode.
Ambition turned his thoughts from these de-
signs— ambition, which labouring through various
lets and hindrances, had now led him to the
summit of his hopes, in making him Lord Pro-
tector of England.

His countenance was rough but intelligent —
his ample brow and quick grey eyes seemed to
look out, over his own plans, and the oppo-
sition of his enemies. His voice was sten-
torian : his hand stretched out in debate, seemed
by its gigantic and muscular form, to warn his
hearers that words were not his only weapons.
Few people had discovered some cowardice and
much infirmity of purpose under this imposing
exterior. No man could crush a " butterfly on
tke wheel"' with better eflect ; no man better

THE LAST MAN. 169

covei^a speedy retreat from a powerful adversary.
This had been the secret of his secession at tlie
time of Lord Raymond's election. In the un-
steady glance of his eye, in his extreme desire to
learn the opinions of all, in the feebleness of his
hand-writing, these qualities might be obscurely
traced, but they were not generally known.
He was now our Lord Protector. He had
canvassed, eagerly for this post. His protec-
torate was to be distinguished by every kind
of innovation on the aristocracy. This his se-
lected task Avas exchanged for the far different
one of encountering the ruin caused by the con-
vulsions of physical nature. He was incapable
of meeting these evils by any comprehensive
system ; he had resorted to expedient after ex-
pedient, and could never be induced to put a
remedy in force, till it came too late to be of use.
Certainly the Ryland that advanced towards
U3 now, bore small resemblance to the powerful,
ironical, seemingly fearless canvasser for the
first rank among Englishmen. Our native oak,

VOL. II. I

no

THE LAST MAN.

as his partisans called him, was visited truly by
a nipping winter. He scarcely appeared half
his usual height; his joints were unknit, his
limbs would not support him ; his face was con-
tracted, his eye wandering ; debility of purpose
and dastard fear were expressed in every ges-
ture.

In answer to our eager questions, one word
alone fell, as it were involuntarily, from his con-
vulsed lips : The PZag-?/^.— "Where ?"— "Every
where — we must fly — alt fly — but whither? No
man can tell — there is no refuge on earth, it
comes on us like a thousand packs of wolves —
we must all fly — where shall you go ? Where
can any of us go ?''

These words were syllabled trembling by the
iron man. Adrian replied, " Whither indeed
would you fly ? We must all remain ; and do
our best to help our suffering fellow-creatures."

" Help!'** said Ryland, "there is no help!
— ;great God, who talks of help ! All the world
has the plague ! *

THE LAST MAN. 171

** Then to avoid it, we must quit the world,"
observed Adrian, with a gentle smile.

Ryland groaned ; cold drops stood on his
brow. It was useless to oppose his parox3^sm of
terror: but we soothed and encouraged him, so
that after an interval he was better able to ex-
plain to us the ground of his alarm. It had
come sufficiently home to hinv. One of his ser-
vants, while waiting on him, had suddenly
fallen down dead. The physician declared that
he died of the plague. We endeavoured to
calm him — but our own hearts were not calm.
I saw the eye of Idris wander from me to her
children, with an anxious appeal to my judg-
ment. Adrian was absorbed in meditation.
For myself, I own that Ryland's words rang in
my ears ; all the world was infected ; — in what
uncontaminated seclusion couJd I save my be-
loved treasures, until the shadow of death had
passed from over the earth ? We sunk into
silence : a silence that drank in the doleful ac-
counts and prognostications of our guest.

I 2

17^ THE LAST MAN.

We had receded from the crowd ; and ascend-
ing the steps of the terrace, sought the Castle.
Our change of cheer struck those nearest to us ;
and, by means of Ryland's servants, the report
soon spread that he had fled from the plague in
London. The sprightly parties broke up —
they assembled in whispering groups. The
spirit of gaiety was eclipsed ; the music ceased ;
the young people left their occupations and
gathered together. The lightness of heart which
had dressed them in masquerade habits, had
decorated their tents, and assembled them in
fantastic groups, appeared a sin against, and a
provocative to, the awful destiny that had laid
its palsying hand upon hope and life. The mer-
riment of the hour was an unholy mockery of
the sorrows of man. The foreigners whom we
had among us, who had fled from the plague in
their own country, now saw their last asylum
invaded; and, fear making them garrulous, they
described to eager listeners the miseries they
had beheld in cities visited by the calamity, and

THE LAST MAN. 17^3

gave fearful accounts of the insidious and
irremediable nature of the disease.

We had entered the Castle. Idris stood at a
window that over-looked the park ; her maternal
eyes sought her own children among the young
crowd. An Italian lad had got an audience
about him, and with animated gestures w^as de-
scribing: some scene of horror. Alfred stood im-
moveable before him, his whole attention ab-
sorbed. Little Evelyn had endeavoured to
draw Clara away to play with him ; but the
Italian's tale arrested her, she crept near, het
lustrous eyes fixed on the speaker. Either
watching the crowd in the park, or occupied by
painful reflection, we were all silent ; Ryland
stood by himself in an embrasure of the window ;
Adrian paced the hall, revolving some new and
overpowering idea — suddenly he stopped and
said : "I have long expected this ; could we in
reason expect that this island should be exempt
from the universal visitation ? The evil is come
home to us, and we must not shrink from our fate

174 THE LAST MAN.

What are your plans, my Lord Protector, for
the benefit of our country ?"

" For heaven's love ! Whidsor," cried Ry-
land, " do not mock me with that title. Death
and disease level all men. I neither pretend to
protect nor govern an hospital— such will England
quickly become.'**

'' Do you then intend, now in time of peril, to
recede from your duties.^'"

" Duties ! speak rationally, my Lord ! — when
I am a plague-spotted corpse, where will my
duties be ? Every man for himself ! the devil
take the protectorship, say I, if it expose me to
danger f'

" Faint-hearted man !" cried Adrian indig:-
nantly — '' Your countrymen put their trust in
you, and you betray them !''

" I betray them !" said Ryland, " the plague
betrays me. Faint-hearted ! It is well, shut up
in your castle, out of danger, to boast yourself
out of fear. Take the Protectorship who wilt ;
before God I renounce it !"

THE LAST MAN. 175

*' And before God,"" replied his opponent,
fervently, " do I receive it ! No one will can-
vass for this honour now — none envy my danger
or labours. Deposit your powers in my hands.
Long have I fought with death, and much" (he
stretched out his thin hand) '' much have I suf-
fered in the struggle. It is not by flying, but
by facing the enemy, that we can conquer. If
my last combat is now about to be fought, and
I am to be worsted — so let it be i''

** But come, Ryland, recollect yourself I
Men have hitherto thought you magnanimous
, and wise, will you cast aside these titles ? Con-
sider the panic your departure will occasion.
Return to London. I will go with you. En-
courage the people by your presence. I will in-
cur all the danger. Shame ! shame ! if the first
magistrate of England be foremost to renounce
his duties."

Meanwhile among our guests in the park, all
thoughts of festivity had faded. As summer-
flies are scattered by rain, so did this congrega-

176 THE LAST MAN.

tion, late noisy and happy, in sadness and me-
lancholy murmurs break up, dwindling away
apace. With the set sun and the deepening twi-
light the park became nearly empty. Adrian
and Ryland were still in earnest discussion.
We had prepared a banquet for our guests in
the lower hall of the castle ; and thither Idris and
I repaired to receive and entertain the few that
remained. There is nothing more melancholy
than a merry-meeting thus turned to sorrow : the
gala dresses— the decorations, gay as they might
otherwise be, receive a solemn and funereal ap-
pearance. If such change be painful from lighter
causes, it weighed with intolerable heaviness
from the knowledge that the earth's desolator
had at last, even as an arch-fiend, lightly over-
leaped the boundaries our precautions raised,
and at once enthroned himself in thefull andbeat-
ing heart of our country. Idris sat at the top
of the half-empty hall. Pale and tearful, she
almost forgot her duties as hostess; her eyes
were fixed on her children. Alfred's serious air

THE LAST MAN. 177

shewed that he still revolved the tragic story re-
lated by the Italian boy. Evelyn was the only
mirthful creature present : he sat on Clara's lap ;
and, making matter of glee from his own fancies,
laughed aloud. The vaulted roof echoed again
his infant tone. The poor mother who had
brooded long over, and suppressed the expression
of her anguish, now burst into tears, and folding
her babe in her arms, hurried from the hall.
Clara and Alfred followed. While the rest of
the company, in confused murmur, which grew
louder and louder, gave voice to their many
fears.

The younger part gathered round me to ask
my advice ; and those who had friends in London
were anxious beyond the rest, to ascertain the
present extent of disease in the metropolis. I
encouraged them widi such thoughts of cheer
as presented themselves. I told them exceed-
ingly few deaths had yet been occasioned by
pestilence, and gave them hopes, as we were the
last visited, so the calamity might have lost its
i3

178 THE LAST MAK*.

most venomous power before it had reached tf^/
The cleanliness, habits of order, and the manner
in which our cities were built, were all in our
favour. As it was an epidemic, its chief force
was derived from pernicious qualities in the air,
and it would probably do little harm where this
was naturally salubrious. At first, I had spoken
only to those nearest me; but the whole assembly
gathered about me, and I found that I was lis-
tened to by all. '^ My friends, ' I said, " our risk
is common ; our precautions and exertions shall
be common also. If manly courage and resist-
ance can save us, we will be saved. We will
fight the enemy to the last. Plague shall not
find us a ready prey ; we will dispute every inch
of ground; and, by methodical and inflexible
laws, pile invincible barriers to the progress of
our foe. Perhaps in no part of the world has
she met with so systematic and determined an
opposition. Perhaps no country is naturally so
well protected against our invader ; nor has nature
anywhere been so well assisted by the hand of

THE LAST MAN. 179

iwan. We will not despair. We are neither
cowards nor fatalists; but, believing that God has
placed the means for our preservation in our own
hands, we will use those means to our utmost.
Remember that cleanliness, sobriety, and even
good-humour and benevolence, are our best
medicines."

There was little I could add to this general
exhortation ; for the plague, though in London,
was not among us. I dismissed the guests
therefore ; and they went thoughtful, more than
sad, to await the events in store for them.

I now sought Adrian, anxious to hear the re-
sult of his discussion with Ryland. He had in
part prevailed ; the Lord Protector consented
to return to London for a few weeks ; during
which time things should be so arranged, as to
occasion less consternation at his departure.
Adrian and Idris were together. The sadness
with which the former had first heard that the
plague was in London had vanished; the energy
of his purpose informed his body with strength.

180 THE LAST MAN.

the solemn joy of enthusiasm and self-devotion
illuminated his countenance ; and the weakness
of his physical nature seemed to pass from him^
as the cloud of humanity did, in the ancient
fable, from the divine lover of Semele. He was
endeavouring to encourage his sister, and to
bring her to look on his intent in a less tragic
light than she was prepared to do ; and with
passionate eloquence he unfolded his designs to
her.

" Let me, at the first word,'' he said, " relieve
your mind from all fear on my account. I will
not task myself beyond my powers, nor will 1
needlessly seek danger. I feel that I know what
ought to be done, and as my presence is neces-
sary for the accomplishment of my plans, I will
take especial care to preserve my life.

" I am now going to undertake an office fitted
for me. I cannot intrigue, or work a tortuous
path through the labyrinth of men's vices and
passions; but I can bring patience, and s)'mpatliy,
^nd such aid as art affords, to the bed of disease;

THE LAST MAX. 181

I can raise from earth the miserable orphan, and
awaken to new hopes the shut lieart of the
mourner. I can enchahi the plague in Ihiiits,
and set a tei'm to the misery it would occasion ;
courage, forbearance, and watchfulness, are the
forces I bring towards this great work.

" O, I shall be something now ! From my
birth I have aspired like the eagle — but, unlike
the eagle, my wings have failed, and ray vision
has been blinded. Disappointment and sicknes?*
have hitherto held dominion over me ; twin
born with me, my xvould^ was for ever enchained
by the shall 7iot, of these my tyrants. A shep-
herd-boy that tends a silly flock on the moun-
tains, was more ii> the scale of society than I.
Congratulate me then that I have found fitting
scope for my powers. I have often thought of
offering my services to the pestilence-stricken
towns of France and Italy ; but fear of paining
you, and expectation of this catastrophe, with-
held me. To Eno-land and to Eno^lishmen I
dedicate myself. If I can save one of her

18S THE LAST MA^^

mighty spirits from the deadly shaft ; if I can
ward disease from one of her smihng cottages,
I shall not have lived in vain."

Strange ambition this! Yet such was Adrian.
He appeared given up to contemplation, averse
to excitement, a lowly student, a man of visions
— but afford him worthy theme, and —

Like to the lark at break of day arising,

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate.*

so did he spring up from listlessnpss and un-
productive thought, to the highest pitch of vir-
tuous action.

With him went enthusiasm, the high- wrought
resolve, the eye that without blenching could
look at death. With us remained sorrow,
anxiety, and unendurable expectation of evil.
The man, says Lord Bacon, who hath wife and
children, has given hostages to fortune. Vain
was all philosophical reasoning — vain all forti-

• Shakespeare's Sonnets.

THE LAST MAK. 18S

tude— vain, vain, a reliance on probable good.
I might heap high the scale with logic, courage,
and resignation — but let one fear for Idris and
our children enter the opposite one, and, over-
weighed, it kicked the beam.

The plague was in London ! Fools that we
were not lonsj ao-o to have foreseen this. We
wept over the ruin of the boundless continents
of the east, and the desolation of the western
world ; while we fancied that the little channel
between our island and the rest of the earth wav«;
to preserve us alive among the dead. It were no
mighty leap methinks from Calais to Dover.
The eye easily discerns the sister land ; they
were united once ; and the little path that runs
between looks in a map but as a trodden foot-
way through high grass. Yet this small inter-
val was to save us : the sea was to rise a wall of
adamant — without, disease and misery — within,
a shelter from evil, a nook of the garden of
paradise — a particle of celestial soil, which no

184) THE LAST MAK.

evil could invade — truly we were wise in our
generation, to imagine all these things I

But we are awake now. The plague is in
London ; the air of England is tainted, and
her sons and daughters strew the unwholesome
earth. And now, the sea, late our defence,
seems our prison bound; hemmed in by its
gulphs, we shall die like the famished inhabit-
ants of a besieged town. Other nations have a
fellowship in death ; but we, shut out from all
neighbourhood, must bury our own dead, and
little England become a wide, wide tomb.

This feeling of universal misery assumed con-
centration and shape, when I looked on my wife
and children ; and the thought of danger to them
possessed my whole being with fear. How
could I save them ? I revolved a thousand and
a thousand plans. They should not die — first I
would be gathered to nothingness, ere infection
should come anear these idols of my soul. I would
walk barefoot through the world, to find an unin-

THE LAST MAN. 185

fected spot; I would build my home on some
wave-tossed plank, drifted about on the barren,
shoreless ocean. I would betake me with them
to some wild beast's den, where a tyger's cubs,
which I would slay, had been reared in health.
I would seek the mountain eagle's eirie, and
live years suspended in some inaccessible recess
of a sea-bounding cliff — no labour too great, no
scheme too wild, if it promised life to them. O !
ye heart-strings of mine, could ye be torn
asunder, and my soul not spend itself in tears
of blood for sorrow !

Idris, after the first shock, regained a portion
of fortitude. She studiously shut out all pros-
pect of the future, and cradled her heart in pre-
sent blessings. She never for a moment lost
sight of her children. But while they in health
sported about her, she could cherish content-
ment and hope. A strange and wild restlessness
came over me — the more intolerable, because I
was forced to conceal it. My fears for Adrian
WTre ceaseless; August had come; and the

186

THE LAST MAN.

symptoms of plague encreased rapidly in Lon-
don. It was deserted by all who possessed the
power of removing ; and he, the brother of my
soul, was exposed to the perils from which all but
slaves enchained by circumstance fled. He
remained to combat the fiend — his side unguard-
ed, his toils unshared — infection might even
reach him, and he die unattended and alone. By
day and night these thoughts pursued me. I
resolved to visit London, to see him; to quiet
these agonizing throes by the sweet medicine of
hope, or the opiate of despair.

It was not until I arrived at Brentford, that I
perceived much change in the face of the coun-
try. The better sort of houses were shut up ;
the busy trade of the town palsied ; there was an
air of anxiety among the few passengers I met,
and they looked wonderingly at my carriage —
the first they had seen pass towards London,
since pestilence sat on its high places, and pos-
sessed its busy streets. I met several funerals ;
they were slenderly attended by mourners, and

THE LAST MAN. 18T

were regarded by the spectators as omens of
direst import. Some gazed on these proces-
sions with wild eagei'ness — others fled timidly
—some wept aloud.

Adiian's chief endeavour, after the immediate
succour of the sick, had been to disguise the
symptoms and progress of the plague from the
inhabitants of London. He knew that fear and
melancholy forebodings were powerful assistants
to disease ; that desponding and brooding care
rendered the physical nature of man peculiarly
susceptible of infection. No unseemly sights
were therefore discernible : the shops were in
general open, the concourse of passengers in
some degree kept up. But although the appear-
ance of an infected town was avoided, to me,
who had not beheld it since the commencement
of the visitation, London appeared sufficiently
changed. There were no carriages, and grass
had sprung high in the streets; the houses had
a desolate look ; most of the shutters were closed ;
and there was a ghast and frightened stare in

188 THE LAST MAN.

the persons I met, very different from' the usual
business-hke demeanour of the Londoners. My
solitary carriage attracted notice, as it rattled
along towards the Protectoral Palace— and the
fashionable streets leading to it wore a still more
dreary and deserted appearance. I found
Adrian^s anti-chamber crowded— it was his hour
for giving audience. I was unwilling to disturb
bis labours, and waited, watching the ingress and
egress of the petitioners. They consisted of
people of the middling and lower classes of
society, whose means of subsistence failed with
the cessation of trade, and of the busy spirit of
money-making in all its branchec, peculiar to
our country. There was an air of anxiety,
sometimes of terror in the new-comers, strongly
contrasted with the resigned and even satisfied
mien of those who had had audience. I could
read the influence of my friend in their quicken-
ed motions and cheerful faces. Two o'clock
struck, after which none were admitted ; those
who had been disappointed went sullenly or sor-

THE LAST MAN. 189

rowfully away, while I entered the audience-
chamber.

I was struck by the improvement that appeared
in the health of Adrian. He was no longer bent
to the ground, like an over-nursed flower of
spring, that, shooting up beyond its strength, is
weighed down even by its own coronal of blos-
soms. His eyes were bright, his countenance
composed, an air of concentrated energy was dif-
fused over his whole person, much unlike its
former languor. He sat at a table with several
secretaries, who were arranging petitions, or
registering the notes made during that day's
audience. Two or three petitioners were still
in attendance. I admired his justice and
patience. Those who possessed a power of
living out of London, he advised immediately
to quit it, affording them the means of so doing.
Others, whose trade was beneficial to the city, or
who possessed no other refuge, he provided with
advice for better avoiding the epidemic; re-
lieving overloaded families, supplying the gaps

190 THE LAST MAN.

made in others by death. Order, comfort, and
even health, rose under his influence, as from the
touch of a magician's wand.

" I am glad you are come," he said to me,
when we were at last alone ; " I can only spare a
few minutes, and must tell you much in that
time. The plague is now in progress — it is
useless closing one's eyes to the fact — the deaths
encrease each week. What will come I cannot
guess. As yet, thank God, I am equal to the
government of the town ; and I look only to the
present. Ryland, whom I have so long detain-
ed, has stipulated that I shall suffer him to depart
before the end of this month. The deputy ap-
pointed by parliament is dead ; another there-
fore must be named; I have advanced my
claim, and I believe that I shall have no com-
petitor. To-night the question is to be decided,
as there is a call of the house for the purpose.
You must nominate me, Lionel ; Rylaod, for
shame, cannot shew himself; but you, my
friend, will do me this service.'^''

THE LAST MAN. 191

How lovely is devotion ! Here was a youth,
royally sprung, bred in luxury, by nature averse
to the usual struggles of a public life, and now,
in time of danger, at a period when to live was
the utmost scope of the ambitious, he, the be-
loved and heroic Adrian, made, in sweet sim-
plicity, an offer to sacrifice himself for the pub-
lic good. The very idea was generous and
noble, — but, beyond this, his unpretending
manner, his entire want of the assumption of a
virtue, rendered his act ten times more touching.
I would have withstood his request ; but I had
seen the good he diffused; I felt that his resolves
were not to be shaken, so, with an heavy heart,
I consented to do as he asked. He grasped my
hand affectionately: — ''Thank you,'"* he said,
" you have relieved me from a painful dilemma,
and are, as you ever were, the best of my friends.
Farewell — I must now leave you for a few hours.
Go you and converse with Ryland. Although
he deserts his post in London, he may be of the
greatest service in the north of England, by re-

19^ THE LAST MAN.

ceiving and assisting travellers, and contri-
buting to supply the metropolis with food.
Awaken him, I entreat you, to some sense of
duty.""

Adrian left me, as I afterwards learnt, upon
his daily task of visiting the hospitals, and in-
specting the crowded parts of London. I found
Ryland much altered, even from what he had
been when he visited Windsor. Perpetual fear
had jaundiced his complexion, and shrivelled his
whole person. I told him of the business of the
evening, and a smile relaxed the contracted
muscles. He desired to go ; each day he ex-
pected to be infected by pestilence, each day he
was unable to resist the gentle violence of
Adrian's detention. The moment Adrian should
be legally elected his deputy, he would es-
cape to safety. Under this impression he listen-
ed to all I said ; and, elevated almost to joy
by the near prospect of his departure, he
entered into a discussion concerning the plans he
should adopt in his own county, forgetting, for

THE LAST MAN. 193

the moment, his cherished resolution of shutting
himself up from all communication in the man-
sion and grounds of his estate.

In the evening, Adrian and I proceeded to
Westminster. As we went he reminded me of
what I was to say and do, yet, strange to say,
I entered the chamber without having once re-
flected on my purpose. Adrian remained in the
coffee-room, while I, in compliance with his
desire, took my seat in St. Stephen's. There
reigned unusual silence in the chamber. I had
not visited it since Raymond's protectorate ; a
period conspicuous for a numerous attendance
of members, for the eloquence of the speakers,
and the warmth of the debate. The benches
were very empty, those by custom occupied by
the hereditary members were vacant ; the city
members were there — the members for the com-
mercial towns, few landed proprietors, and not
many of those who entered parliament for the
sake of a career. The first subject that occu-
pied the attention of the house was an address

VOL. II. K

194 THE LAST MAN.

from the Lord Protector, praying them to appoint
a deputy during a necessary absence on his part.
A silence prevailed, till one of the members
coming to me, whispered that the Earl of
Windsor had sent him word that I was to move
his election, in the absence of the person who
had been first chosen for this office. Now for
the first time I saw the full extent of my task,
and I was overwhelmed by what I had brought
on myself. Ryland had deserted his post
through fear of the plague : from the same fear
Adrian had no competitor. And I, the nearest
kinsman of the Earl of Windsor, was to propose
his election. I was to thrust this selected and
matchless friend into the post of danger — im-
possible ! the die was cast — I would offer my-
self as candidate.

The few members who were present, had
come more for the sake of terminating the busi-
ness by securing a legal attendance, than under
the idea of a debate. I had risen mechanically
— my knees trembled ; irresolution hung on my

THE LAST MAN. 195

voice, as I uttered a few words on the neces-
sity of choosing a person adequate to the dan-
gerous task in hand. But,- when the idea of
presenting myself in the room of my friend in-
truded, the load of doubt and pain was taken
from oft' me. My words flowed spontaneously
— my utterance was firm and quick. I adverted
to what Adrian had already done — I promised
the same vigilance in furthering all his views.
I drew a touching picture of his vacillating
health ; I boasted of my own strength. I
prayed them to save even from himself this
scion of the noblest family in England. My
alliance with him was the pledge of my sin-
cerity, my union with his sister, my children, his
presumptive heirs, were the hostages of my truth.
This unexpected turn in the debate was
quickly communicated to Adrian. He hurried
in, and witnessed the termination of my impas-
sioned harangue. I did not see him : my soul
was in my words, — my eyes could not perceive
that which was ; while a vision of Adrian's form,
K 2

196 THE LAST MAX.

tainted by pestilence, and sinking in death,
floated before them. He seized my hand, as I
concluded — " Unkind !" he cried, " you have
betrayed me !" then, springing forwards, with the
air of one who had a right to command, he
claimed the place of deputy as his own. He
had bought it, he said, with danger, and paid
for it with toil. His ambition rested there ; and,
after an interval devoted to the interests of his
country, was I to step in, and reap the profit ?
Let them remember what London had been when
he arrived: the panic that prevailed brought
famine, while every moral and legal tie was
loosened. He had restored order — this had
been a work which required perseverance,
patience, and energy ; and he had neither slept
nor waked but for the good of his country. —
Would they dare wrong him thus? Would they
wrest his hard-earned reward from him, to be-
stow it on one, who, never having mingled in
public life, would come a tyro to the craft, in
which he w^s an adept. He demanded the

THE LAST MAN. 197

place of deputy as his right. Ryland had
shewn that he preferred him. Never before
had he, who was born even to the inheritance of
the throne of England, never had he asked
favour or honour from those now his equals, but
who might have been his subjects. Would they
refuse him ? Could they thrust back from the
path of distinction and laudable ambition, the
heir of their ancient kings, and heap another
disappointment on a fallen house.

No one had ever before heard Adrian allude to
the rights of his ancestors. None had ever before
suspected, that powder, or the suffrage of the
many, could in any manner become dear to him.
He had begun his speech with vehemence ; he
ended with unassuming gentleness, making his
appeal with the same humility, as if he had
asked to be the first in wealth, honour, and
power among Englishmen, and not, as was the
truth, to be the foremost in the ranks of loath-
some toils and inevitable death. A murmur of
approbation rose after his speech. '' Oh, do not

198 THE LAST MA:^J.

listen to him," I cried, " he speaks false — false
to himself," — I was interrupted: and, silence
being restored, we were ordered, as was the cus-
tom, to retire' during the decision of the house.
I fancied that they hesitated, and that there
was some hope for me — I was mistaken — hardly
had we quitted the chamber, before Adrian was
recalled, and installed in his office of Lord De-
puty to the Protector. '

We returned together to the palace. " Why,
Lionel,"" said Adrian, '' what did you intend ?
you could not hope to conquer, and yet you
gave me the pain of a triumph over my dearest
friend."

" This is mockery,"" I replied, " you devote
yourself, — you, the adored brother of Idris, the
being, of all the world contains, dearest to our
hearts — you devote yourself to an early death.
I would have prevented this ; my death would
be a small evil — or rather I should not die;
while you cannot hope to escape.""

THE LAST MAN. 109

" As to the likelihood of escaping," said
Adrian, " ten years hence the cold stars may
shine on the graves of all of us ; but as to my
peculiar habihty to infection, I could easily
prove, both logically and physically, that in the
midst of contagion I have a better chance of life
than you.

'* This is my post: I was born for this— to
rule England in anarchy, to save her in danger —
to devote myself for her. The blood of my
forefathers cries aloud in my veins, and bids me
be first among my countrymen. Or, if this mode
of speech offend you, let me say, that my mother,
the proud queen, instilled early into me a love
of distinction, and all that, if the weakness of my
physical nature and my peculiar opinions had not
prevented such a design, might have made me
long since struggle for the lost inheritance of
my race. But now my mother, or, if you will,
my mother's lessons, awaken within me. I can-
not lead on to battle ; I cannot, through intrigue

200

THE LAST MAN.

and faithlessness rear again the throne upon the
wreck of EngHsh pubhc spirit. But I can be
the first to support and guard my country,
now that terrific disasters and ruin have laid
strong hands upon her.

" That country and my beloved sister are all
I have. I will protect the first — the latter I
commit to your charge. If I survive, and she
be lost, I were far better dead. Preserve her —
for her own sake I know that you will — if you
require any other spur, think that, in preserving
her, you preserve me. Her faultless nature, one
sum of perfections, is wrapt up in her affections
— if they were hurt, she would droop like an un-
watered floweret, and the slightest injury they re-
ceive is a nipping frost to her. Already she fears
for us. She fears for the children she adores, and
for you, the father of these, her lover, husband,
protector ; and you must be near her to sup-
port and encourage her. Return to Windsor
then, my brother ; for such you are by every

THE LAST ]\IAN. 2()1

tie — fJl the double place my absence imposes on
you, and let me, in all my sufferings here, turn
my eyes towards that dear seclusion, and say-
There is peace."

K 3

S02 THE LAST MAN.

CHAPTER VII.

I DJD proceed to Windsor, but not with the
intention of remaining there. I went but to ob-
tain the consent of Idris, and then to return and
take my station beside my unequalled friend ;
to share his labours, and save him, if so it must
be, at the expence of my life. Yet I dreaded
to witness the anguish which my resolve might
excite in Idris. I had vowed to my own heart
never to shadow her countenance even with
transient grief, and should I prove recreant at
the hour of greatest need ? I had begun my
journey witli anxious haste; now I desired to
draw it out through the course of days and
months. I longed to avoid the necessity of

THE LAST MAN. 203

action ; I strove to escape from thought — vamly
— futurity, Hke a dark image in a phantasma-
goria, came nearer and more near, till it clasped
the whole earth in its shadow.

A slight circumstance induced me to alter my
usual route, and to return home by Egham and
Bishopgate. I alighted at Perdita's ancient
abode, her cottage ; and, sending forward the
carriage, determined to walk across the park to
the castle. This spot, dedicated to sweetest re-
collections, the deserted house and neglected
garden were well adapted to nurse my melan-
choly. In our happiest days, Perdita had
adorned her cottage with every aid art might
bring, to that which nature had selected to
favour. In the same spirit of exaggeration she
had, on the event of her separation from Ray-
mond, caused it to be entirely neglected. It
was now in ruin : the deer had climbed the
broken palings, and reposed among the flowers ;
grass grew on the threshold, and the swinging-
lattice creaking to the wind, gave signal of utter

204 THE LAST MAN.

desertion. The sky was blue above, and the
air impregnated with fragrance by the rare
flowers that srew among the weeds. The trees
moved overhead, awakening nature's favourite
melody— but the melancholy appearance of the
choaked paths, and weed-grown flower-beds,
dimmed even this gay summer scene. The time
when in proud and happy security we assembled
at this cottage, was gone — soon the present hours
would join those past, and shadows of future
ones rose dark and menacing from the womb of
time, their cradle and their bier. For the first
time in my life I envied the sleep of the dead,
and thought with pleasure of one's bed under
the sod, where grief and fear have no powder. I
passed through the gap of the broken paling —
I felt, while I disdained, the choaking tears — I
rushed into the depths of the forest. O death
and change, rulers of our life, where are ye, that
I may grapple with you ! What was there in
our tranquillity, that excited your envy — in our
happiness, that ye should destroy it ? We were

THE LAST MAN. 205

happy, loving, and beloved ; the horn of
Amalthea contained no blessing unshowercd
upon us, but, alas'

la fortuna
deidad barbara importuna ,

" oy cadaver y ayer flor,
no permanece jamas!*

As I wandered on thus ruminating, a number
of country people passed me. They seemed
full of careful thought, and a few words of their
conversation that reached me, induced me to
approach and make farther enquiries. A party
of people flying from London, as was frequent
in those days, had come up the Thames in a
boat. No one at Windsor would afford them
shelter; so, going a little further up, they remain-
ed all night in a deserted hut near Bolter's lock.
They pursued their way the following morning,
leaving one of their company behind them, sick

* Calderon de la Barca.

2O0 THE LAST MAN.

of the plague. This circumstance once spread
abroad, none dared approach within half a mile
of the infected neighbourhood, and the deserted
wretch was left to fight with disease and death
in solitude, as he best might. I was urged by,
compassion to hasten to the hut, for the purpose
of ascertaining his situation, and administering
to his wants.

As I advanced I met knots of country-people
talking earnestly of this event : distant as they
were from the apprehended contagion, fear was
impressed on every countenance. I passed by
a group of these terrorists, in a lane in the direct
road to the hut. One of them stopped me, and,
conjecturing that I was ignorant of the circum-
stance, told me not to go on, for that an infected
person lay but at a short distance.

"I know it,*" I replied, '^ and I am going to
see in what condition the poor fellow is."

A murmur of surprise and horror ran through
the assembly. I continued:—" This poor wretch
is deserted, dying, succourless ; in these unhappy

THE LAST MAN. 207

times, God knows how soon any or all of us may
be in like want. I am going to do, as I would
be done by.*"

" But you will never be able to return to the
Castle — Lady Idris— his children — '' in confused
speech were the words that struck my ear.

" Do you not know, my friends," I said, " that
the Earl himself, now Lord Protector, visits
daily, not only those probably infected by this
disease, but the hospitals and pest houses, going
near, and even touching the sick ? yet he was
never in better health. You labour under an
entire mistake as to the nature of the plague ;
but do not fear, I do not ask any of you to ac-
company me, nor to believe me, until I return
safe and sound from my patient."

So I left them, and hurried on. I soon
arrived at the hut : the door was ajar. I en-
tered, and one glance assured me that its former
inhabitant was no more — he lav on a heap of
straw, cold and stiff; while a pernicious effluvia

208 THE LAST MAN.

filled the room, and various stains and marks
served to shew the virulence of the disorder.

I had never before beheld one killed by pes-
tilence. While every mind was full of dismay at
its eiFects, a craving for excitement had led us
to peruse De Foe's account, and the masterly
delineations of the author of Arthur Mervyn.
The pictures drawn in these books were so vivid,
that we seemed to have experienced the results
depicted by them. But cold were the sensations
excited by words, burning though they were,
and describing the death and misery of thou-
sands, compared to what I felt in looking on the
corpse of this unhappy stranger. This indeed
was the plague. I raised his rigid limbs, I
marked the distortion of his face, and the stony
eyes lost to perception. As I was thus occu-
pied, chill horror congealed my blood, making
my flesh quiver and my hair to stand on end.
Half insanely I spoke to the dead. So the
plague killed you, I muttered. How came

THE LAST JfAN. 209

this ? Was the coming painful ? You look as
if the enemy had tortured, before he murdered
you. And now I leapt up precipitately, and
escaped from the hut, before nature could re-
voke her laws, and inorganic words be bi'eathed
in answer from the lips of the departed.

On returning through the lane, I saw at a
distance the same assemblage of persons which I
had left. They hurried away, as soon as they
saw me ; my agitated mein added to their fear of
coming near one who had entered within the
verge of contagion.

At a distance from facts one draws conclusions
which appear infallible, which yet when put to
the test of reality, vanish like unreal dreams.
I had ridiculed the fears of my countrymen,
when they related to others ; now that they came
home to myself, I paused. The Rubicon, I
felt, was passed ; and it behoved me well to re-
flect what I should do on this hither side of
disease and danger. According to the vulgar
superstition, my dress, my person, the air I

210 THE LAST MAN.

breathed, bore in it mortal danger to myself and
others. Should I return to the Castle, to my
wife and children, with this taint upon me ?
Not surely if I were infected ; but I felt cer-
tain that I was not — a few hours would de-
termine the question — I would spend these in
the forest, in reflection on what was to come, and
what my future actions were to be. In the feel-
ing communicated to me by the sight of one
struck by the plague, I forgot the events that
had excited me so strongly in London ; new and
more painful prospects, by degrees were cleared
of the mist which had hitherto veiled them.
The question was no longer whether I should
share Adrian's toils and danger ; but in what
manner I could, in Windsor and the neighbour-
hood, imitate the prudence and zeal which,
under his government, produced order and
plenty in London, and how, now pestilence had
spread more widely, I could secure the health
of my own family.

I spread the whole earth out as a map before

THE LAST MAN. 211

me. On no one spot of its surface could I put
my finger and say, here is safety. In the south,
the disease, virulent and immedicable, had
nearly annihilated the race of man ; storm and
inundation, poisonous winds and blights, filled
up the measure of suffering. In the north it
was worse — the lesser population gradually de-
clined, and famine and plague kept watch on
the survivors, who, helpless and feeble, were
ready to fall an easy prey into their hands.

I contracted my view to England. The over-
grown metropolis, the great heart of mighty
Britain, was pulseless. Commerce had ceased.
All resort for ambition or pleasure was cut off
— the streets were grass-grown — the houses
empty — the few, that from necessity remained,
seemed already branded with the taint of in-
evitable pestilence. In the larger manufactur-
ing towns the same tragedy was acted on a
smaller, yet more disastrous scale. There was
no Adrian to superintend and direct, while
v/hole flocks of the poor were struck and killed.

21S THE LAST MAN.

Yet we were not all to die. No truly, though
thinned, the race of man would continue, and
the great plague would, in after years, become
matter of history and wonder. Doubtless this
visitation was for extent unexampled — more need
that we should work hard to dispute its pro-
gress ; ere this men have gone out in sport, and
slain their thousands and tens of thousands; but
now man had become a creature of price ; the
life of one of them was of more worth than the
so called treasures of kings. Look at his thought-
endued countenance, his graceful limbs, his ma-
jestic brow, his wondrous mechanism — the type
and model of this best work of God is not to be
cast aside as a broken vessel— he shall be pre-
served, and his children and his children's
children carry down the name and form of man
to latest time.

Above all I must guard those entrusted by
nature and fate to my especial care. And surely,
if among all my fellow-creatures I were to select
those who might stand forth examples of the

THE LAST MAN. 2\S

greatness and goodness of man, I could choose
no other than those aUied to me by the most
sacred ties. Some from among the family of man
must survive, and these should be among the
survivors ; that should be my task — to accom-
plish it my own life were a small sacrifice.
There then in that castle— in Windsor Castle,
birth-place of Idris and my babes, should be
the haven and retreat for the wrecked bark
of human society. Its forest should be our
world — its garden afford us food ; within its
walls I would establish the shaken throne of
health. I was an outcast and a vagabond, when
Adrian gently threw over me the silver net of
love and civilization, and linked me inextri-
cably to human charities and human ex-
cellence. I was one, who, though an aspirant
after good, and an ardent lover of wisdom,
was yet unenrolled in any list of worth,
when Idris, the princely born, who was herself
the personification of all that was divine in
woman, she who walked the earth like a poet's

214 THE LAST MAN.

dream, as a carved goddess endued with sense,
or pictured saint stepping from the canvas— she,
the most worthy, chose me, and gave me herself
— a priceless gift.

During several hours I continued thus to
meditate, till hunger and fatigue brought me
back to the passing hour, then marked by long
shadows cast from the descending sun. I had
wandered towards Bracknel, far to the west of
AVindsor. The feeling of perfect health which I
enjoyed, assured me that I was free from conta-
gion. I remembered that Idris had been kept in
ignorance of my proceedings. She might have
heard of my return from London, and my visit to
Bolter's Lock, w^hich, connected with my con-
tinued absence, might tend greatly to alarm her.
I returned to Windsor by the Long Walk, and
passing through the town towards the Castle, I
found it in a state of agitation and disturbance.

"It is too late to be ambitious," says Sir
Thomas Browne. " We cannot hope to Hve so
long in our names as some have done in their

THE LAST MAX. 215

persons; one face of Janus holds no proportion to
the other." Upon this text many fanatics arose,
who prophesied that the end of time was come.
The spirit of superstition had birth, from the
wreck of our hopes, and antics wild and danger-
ous were played on the great theatre, while the
remaining particle of futurity dwindled into a
point in the eyes of the prognosticators. AVeak-
spirited women died of fear as they listened to
their denunciations; men of robust form and
seeming strength fell into idiotcy and madness,
racked by the dread of coming eternity. A
man of this kind was now pouring forth his elo-
quent despair among the inhabitants of Wind-
sor. The scene of the morning, and my visit to
the dead, which had been spread abroad, had
alarmed the country-people, so they had be-
come fit instruments to be played upon by a
maniac.

The poor Avretch had lost his young wife and
lovely infant by the plague. He was a mecha-
nic ; and, rendered unable to attend to the occu-

216 THE LAST MAN.

pation which supplied his necessities, famine
was added to his other miseries. He left the
chamber which contained his wife and child —
wife and child no more, but *•' dead earth upon
the earth" — wild with hunger, watching and
grief, his diseased fancy made him believe him-
self sent by heaven to preach the end of time to
the world. He entered the churches, and fore-
told to the congregations their speedy removal
to the vaults below. He appeared like the for-
gotten spirit of the time in the theatres, and bade
the spectators go home and die. He had been
seized and confined ; he had escaped and wan-
dered from London among the neighbouring
towns, and, with frantic gestures and thrilling
words, he unveiled to each their hidden fears,
and gave voice to the soundless thought they
dared not syllable. He stood under the arcade
of the town-hall of Windsor, and from this
elevation harangued a trembling crowd.

'' Hear, O ye inhabitants of the earth," he
cried, " hear thou, all seeing, but most pitiless

THE LAST MAN. 217

Heaven ! hear thou too, O tempest- tossed heart,
which breathes out these words, yet faints beneath
their meaning ! Death is among us ! The earth
is beautiful and flower-bedecked, but she is our
grave ! The clouds of heaven weep for us — the
pageantry of the stars is but our funeral torch-
light. Grey headed men, ye hoped for yet a
few years in your long-known abode — but the
lease is up, you must remove — children, ye will
never reach maturity, even now the small grave
is dug for ye— mothers, clasp them in your arms,
one death embraces you !"

Shuddering, he stretched out his hands, his
eyes cast up, seemed bursting from their sockets,
while he appeared to follow shapes, to us invisible,
in the yielding air — *' There they are,'" he cried,
" the dead ! They rise in their shrouds, and pass
in silent procession towards the far land of their
doom — their bloodless lips move not — their
shadowy limbs are void of motion, while still
the}^ glide onwards. " We come," he exclaimed,
springing forwards, " for what should we wait ?

VOL. II. L

^18 THE LAST MAN.

Haste, my friends, apparel yourselves in the
court-dress of death. Pestilence will usher you
to his presence. Why thus long? they, the
good, the wise, and the beloved, are gone before.
Mothers, kiss your last — husbands, protectors
no more, lead on the partners of your death I
Come, O come ! while the dear ones are yet in
sight, for soon they will pass away, and we never
never shall join them more.'^

From such ravings as these, he would sud-
denly become collected, and with unexaggerated
but terrific words, paint the horrors of the time ;
describe with minute detail, the effects of the
plague on the human frame, and tell heart-
breaking tales of the snapping of dear affinities
— the gasping horror of despair over the death-
bed of the last beloved — so that groans and even
shrieks burst from the crowd. One man in
particular stood in front, his eyes fixt on the
prophet, his mouth open, his limbs rigid, while
his face changed to various colours, yellow, blue,
and green, through intense fear. The maniac

THE LAST MAN. S19

caught his glance, and turned his eye on him—
one has heard of the gaze of tlie rattle-snake,
which allures the trembling victim till he falls

o

within his jaws. The maniac became composed ;
his person rose higher; authority beamed from
his countenance. He looked on the peasant,
who began to tremble, while he still gazed ; his
knees knocked together ; his teeth chattered. He
at last fell down in convulsions. " That man
has the plague," said the maniac calmly. A
shriek burst from the lips of the poor wretch ;
and then sudden motionlessness came over him ;
it was manifest to all that he was dead.

Cri^s of horror filled the place— every one en-
deavoured to effect his escape — in a few minutes
the market place was cleared — the corpse lay on
the ground ; and the maniac, subdued and ex-
hausted, sat beside it, leaning his gaunt cheek
upon his thin han^. Soon some people, deputed
by the magistrates, came to remove the body; the
unfortunate being saw a jailor in each — he fled
L S

220 THE LAST MAN.

precipitately, while I passed onwards to the
Castle.

Death, cruel and relentless, had entered these
beloved walls. An old servant, who had nursed
Idris in infancy, and who lived with us more on
the footing of a revered relative than a domestic,
had gone a few days before to visit a daughter,
married, and settled in the neighbourhood of
London. On the night of her return she sickened
of the plague. From the haughty and unbend-
ing nature of the Countess of Windsor, Idris
had few tender filial associations with her. This
good woman had stood in the place of a mother,
and her very deficiencies of education and know-
ledge, by rendering her humble and defenceless,
endeared her to us — she was the especial favourite
of the children. I found my poor girl, there is
no exaggeration in the expression, wild with
grief and dread. She hung over the patient in
agony, which was not mitigated when her thoughts
wandered towards her babes, for whom she feared

THE LAST MAN. 221

infection. My arrival was like the newly dis-
covered lamp of a lighthouse to sailors, who are
weathering some dangerous point. She deposited
her appalling doubts in my hands ; she relied on
my judgment, and was comforted by my partici-
pation in her sorrow. Soon our poor nurse ex-
pired ; and the anguish of suspense was changed
to deep regret, which though at first more pain-
ful, yet yielded with greater readiness to my
consolations. Sleep, the sovereign balm, at length
steeped her tearful eyes in forgetfulness.

She slept; and quiet prevailed in the Castle,
whose inhabitants were hushed to repose. I was
awake, and during the long hours of dead night,
my busy thoughts worked in my brain, like ten
thousand mill-wheels, rapid, acute, untameable.
All slept— all England slept; and from my win-
dow, commanding a wide prospect of the star-il-
lumined country, I saw the land stretched out in
placid rest, I was awake, alive, while the brother
of death possessed my race. What, if the more
potent of these fraternal deities should obtain

223 THE LAST MAX.

dominion over it ? The silence of midnight, to
speak truly, though apparently a paradox, rung
in my ears. The solitude became intolerable —
I placed my hand on the beating heart of Idris,
I bent my head to catch the sound of her breathy
to assure myself that she still existed — for a mo-
ment I doubted whether I should not awake her ;
so eifeminate an horror ran through my frame-
— Great God ! would it one day be thus ? One
day all extinct, save myself, should I walk the
earth alone ? Were these warning voices, whose
inarticulate and oracular sense forced belief upon
me?

Yet I would not call tliem

Voices of warning, that announce to us

Only the inevitable. As the sun.

Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image

In the atmosphere— so often do the spirits

Of great events stride on before the events.

And in to-day already walks to-morrow.*

Coleridge's Translation of Schiller's Wallenstein.

THE LAST MAN, 2i23

CHAPTER VIIL

After a long interval, I am again impelled
by the restless spirit within me to continue my
narration ; but I must alter the mode which I
have hitherto adopted. The details contained
in the foregoing pages, apparently trivial, yet
each slightest one weighing like lead in the
depressed «cale of human afflictions ; this tedious
dwelling on the sorrows of others, while my own
were only in apprehension ; this slowly laying
bare of my soul's wounds : this journal of death ;
this long drawn and tortuous path, leading to the
ocean of countless tears, awakens me again to
keen grief. I had used this history as an opiate ;
while it described my beloved friends, fresh with

224 THE LAST MAN.

life and glowing with hope, active assistants
on the scene, I was soothed ; there will be a more
melancholy pleasure in painting the end of
all. But the intermediate steps, the climbing
the wall, raised up between what was and is,
while I still looked back nor saw the concealed
desert beyond, is a labour past my strength.
Time and experience have placed me on an
height from which I can comprehend the past
as a whole ; and in this way I must describe it,
bringing forward the leading incidents, and
disposing light and shade so as to form a picture
in whose very darkness there will be harmony.

It would be needless to narrate those disastrous
occurrences, for which a parallel might be found
in any slighter visitation of our gigantic calamity.
Does the reader wish to hear of the pest-houses,
where death is the comforter — of the mournful
passage of the death-cart — of the insensibility of
the worthless, and the anguish of the loving
heart — of harrowing shrieks and silence dire — of
the variety of disease, desertion, famine, despair^

THE LAST MAN. S25

and death ? There are many books which can
feed the appetite craving for these things ; let
them turn to the accounts of Boccaccio, De Foe,
and Browne. The vast annihilation that has
swallowed all things — the voiceless solitude of
the once busy earth — the lonely state of single-
ness which hems me in, has deprived even such
details of their stinging reality, and mellowing
the lurid tints of past anguish with poetic
hues, I am able to escape from the mosaic of
circumstance, by perceiving and reflecting back
the grouping and combined colouring of the past,
I had returned from London possessed by
the idea, with the intimate feeling that it was
my first duty to secure, as well as T was able,
the well-being of my family, and then to return
and take my post beside Adrian, The events
that immediately followed on my arrival at
Windsor changed this view of things. The
plague was not in London alone, it was every
where — it came on us, as Ry land had said, hke
a thousand packs of wolves, howling through
l3

THE LAST MAN.

the winter night, gaunt and fierce. When once
disease was introduced into the rural districts,
its effects appeared more horrible, more exigent,
and more difficult to cure, than in towns. There
was a companionship in suffering there, and, the
neighbours keeping constant watch on each
other, and inspired by the active benevolence of
Adrian, succour was afforded, and the path of
destruction smoothed. But in the country,
among the scattered farm-houses, in lone cot-
tages, in fields, and barns, tragedies were acted
harrowing to the soul, unseen, unheard, un-
noticed. Medical aid was less easily procured,
food was more difficult to obtain, and human
beings, unwithheld by shame, for they were un-
beheld of their fellows, ventured on deeds of
greater wickedness, or gave way more readily
to their abject fears.

Deeds of heroism also occurred, whose very
mention swells the heart and brings tears into
the eyes. Such is human nature, that beauty
and deformity are often closely linked. In read-

THE LAST MAN. 227

ing history we are chiefly struck by the genero-
sity and self-devotion that follow close on the
heels of crime, veiling with supernal flowers the
stain of blood. Such acts were not wanting to
adorn the grim train that waited on the progress
of the plague.

The inhabitants of Berkshire and Bucks had
been long aware that the plague was in London,
in Liverpool, Bristol, Manchester, York, in
short, in all the more populous towns of England.
They were not however the less astonished and
dismayed when it appeared among themselves.
They were impatient and angry in the midst of
terror. They would do something to throw off
the clinging evil, and, while in action, they fancied
that a remedy was applied. The inhabitants of
the smaller towns left their houses, pitched tents
in the fields, wandering separate from each other
careless of hunger or the sky's inclemency, while
they imagined that they avoided the death-deal-
ing disease. The farmers and cottagers, on the
contrary, struck with the fear of solitude, and

228 THE LAST MAN.

madly desiious of medical assistance, flocked
into the towns.

But winter was coming, and with winter, hope.
In August, the plague had appeared in the
country of England, and during September it
made its ravages. Towards the end of October
it dwindled away, and was in some degree re-
placed by a typhus, of hardly less virulence.
The autumn was warm and rainy : the infirm
and sickly died off— happier they : many young
people flushed with health and prosperity, made
pale by wasting malady, became the inhabitants
of the grave. The crop had failed, the bad corn,
and want of foreign wines, added vigour to
disease. Before Christmas half England was
under water. The storms of the last winter were
renewed ; but the diminished shipping of this
year caused us to feel less the tempests of the
sea. The flood and storms did more harm to
continental Europe than to us — giving, as it
were, the last blow to the calamities which de-
stroyed it In Italy the rivers were unwatched

THE LAST MAN. 229

by the diminished peasantry; and, Uke wild beasts
from their lair when the hunters and dogs are
afar, did Tiber, Arno, and Po, rush upon and
destroy the fertility of the plains. Whole vil-
lages were carried away. Rome, and Florence,
and Pisa were overflowed, and their marble
palaces, late mirrored in tranquil streams, had
their foundations shaken by their winter-gifted
power. In Germany and Russia the injury was
still more momentous.

But frost would come at last, and with it a re-
newal of our lease of earth. Frost would blunt
the arrows of pestilence, and enchain the furious
elements ; and the land would in spring throw off
her garment of snow, released from her menace
of destruction. It was not until February that
the desired signs of winter appeared. For three
days the snow fell, ice stopped the current of the
rivers, and the birds flew out from crackling
branches of the frost- whitened trees. On the
fourth morning all vanished. A south-west
wind brought up rain — the sun came out, and

230 THE LAST MAN.

mocking the usual laws of nature, seemed even
at this early season to burn with solsticial force.
It was no consolation, that with the first winds of
March the lanes were filled with violets, the fruit
trees covered with blossoms, that the corn sprung
up, and the leaves came out, forced by the un-
seasonable heat. We feared the balmy air — we
feared the cloudless sky, the flower-covered earth,
and delightful woods, for we looked on the fabric
of the universe no longer as our dwelHng, but
our tomb, and the fragrant land smelled to the
apprehension of fear like a wide church-yard.

Pisando la tierra dura
de continuo el horabre estd
y cada passo que da
as sobre su sepultura.*

Yet notwithstanding these disadvantages win-
ter was breathing time ; and we exerted ourselves
to make the best of it. Plague might not revive

• Calderon de la Barca.

THE LAST MAN. 231

■with the summer ; but if it did, it should find us
prepared. It is a part of man's nature to adapt
itself through habit even to pain and sorrow.
Pestilence had become a part of our future, our
existence ; it was to be guarded against, likethe
flooding of rivers, the encroachments of ocean,
or the inclemency of the sky. After long suffer-
ing and bitter experience, some panacea might
be discovered ; as it was, all that received infec-
tion died — all however were not infected ; and
it became our part to fix deep the foundations,
and raise high the barrier between contagion and
the sane ; to introduce such order as would con-
duce to the well-being of the survivors, and as
would preserve hope and some portion of happi-
ness to those who were spectators of the still re-
newed tragedy. Adrian had introduced syste-
matic modes of proceeding in the metropolis,
which, while they were unable to stop the pro-
gress of death, yet prevented other evils, vice
and folly, from rendering the awful fate of the

232 THE LAST MAN.

hour still more tremendous. I wished to imitate
his example, but men are used to

— move all together, if they move at all,*

and I could find no means of leading the inha-
bitants of scattered towns and villages, who for-
got my words as soon as they heard them not,
and veered with every baffling wind, that might
arise from an apparent change of circumstance.

I adopted another plan. Those writers who
have imagined a reign of peace and happiness
on earth, have generally described a rural coun-
try, where each small township was directed by
the elders and wise men. This was the key
of my design. Each village, however small,
usually contains a leader, one among themselves
whom they venerate, whose advice they seek in
difficulty, and whose good opinion they chiefly
value. I was immediately drawn to make this

I* Wordsworth.

THE LAST MAN. 23J3

observation by occurrences that pro'?ented them-
selves to my personal experience.

In the villafje of Little Marlow an old woman
ruled the community. She had lived for some
years in an alms-house, and on fine Sundays her
threshold was constantly beset by a crowd,
seeking her advice and listening to her admoni-
tions. She had been a soldier's wife, and had
seen the world; infirmity, induced by fevers
caught in unwholesome quarters, had come on
her before its time, and she seldom moved from
her little cot. The plague entered the village ;
and, while fright and grief deprived the inhabi-
tants of the little wisdom they possessed, old
Martha stepped forward and said — " Before
now I have been in a town where there was the
plague." — " And you escaped .?" — " No, but I
recovered." — After this Martha was seated more
firmly than ever on the regal seat, elevated by
reverence and love. She entered the cottages of
the sick ; she relieved their wants with her own
baud ; she betrayed no fear, and inspired iill

234 THE LAST MAN.

who saw her with some portion of her own na-
tive courage. She attended the markets — she
insisted upon being suppUed with food for those
who were too poor to purchase it. She shewed
them how the well-being of each included the
prosperity of all. She would not permit the
gardens to be neglected, nor the very flowers in
the cottage lattices to droop from want of care.
Hope, she said, was better than a doctor's pre-
scription, and every thing that could sustain
and enliven the spirits, of more worth than
drugs and mixtures.

It was the sight of Little Mario w, and my
conversations with Martha, that led me to the
plan I formed. I had before visited the manor
houses and gentlemen's seats, and often found
the inhabitants actuated by the purest benevo-
lence, ready to lend their utmost aid for the wel-
fare of their tenants. But this was not enough.
The intimate sympathy generated by similar
hopes and fears, similar experience and pursuits,
was wanting here. The poor perceived that the

THE LAST MAN. 235

rich possessed other means of preservation than
those which could be partaken of by themselves,
seclusion, and, as far as circumstances permitted,
freedom from care. They could not place re-
liance on them, but turned with tenfold depend-
ence to the succour and advice of their equals.
I resolved therefore to go from village to village,
seeking out the rustic archon of the place, and by
systematizing their exertions, and enlightening
their views, encrease both their power and their
use among their fellow-cottagers. Many changes
also now occurred in these spontaneous regal
elections : depositions and abdications were fre-
quent, while, in the place of the old and pru-
dent, the ardent youth would step forward,
eager for action, regardless- of danger. Often
too, the voice to which ali listened was suddenly
silenced, the helping hand cold, the sympathe-
tic eye closed, and the villagers feared still more
the death that had selected a choice victim,
shivering in dust the heart that had beat for
them, reducing to incommunicable annihilation

236 THE LAST MAN.

the mind for ever occupied with projects for
their welfare.

Whoever labours for man must often find in-
gratitude, watered by vice and folly, spring
from the grain which he has sown. Death,
which had in our younger days walked the earth
like " a thief that comes in the night," now,
rising from his subterranean vault, girt with
power, with dark banner floating, came a con-
queror. Many saw, seated above his vice-regal
throne, a supreme Providence, who directed
his shafts, and guided his progress, and they
bowed their heads in resignation, or at least in
obedience. Others perceived only a passing
casualty ; they endeavoured to exchange terror
for heedlessness, and plunged into licentious-
ness, to avoid the agonizing throes of worst ap-
prehension. Thus, while the wise, the good,
and the prudent were occupied by the labours
of benevolence, the truce of winter produced
other effects among the young, the thoughtless,
and the vicious. During the colder months there

THE LAST MAN. 237

was a general rush to London in search of amuse-
ment— the ties of pubhc opinion were loosened ;
many were rich, heretofore poor — many had
lost father and mother, the guardians of their
morals, their mentors and restraints. It would
have been useless to have opposed these im-
pulses by barriers, which would only have
driven those actuated by them to more perni-
cious indulgencies. The theatres were open and
thronged ; dance and midnight festival were
frequented — in many of these decorum was vio-
lated, and the evils, which hitherto adhered to an
advanced state of civilization, were doubled.
The student left his books, the artist his study :
the occupations of life were gone, but the amuse-
ments remained ; enjoyment might be protracted
to the verge of the grave. All factitious colour-
ing disappeared — death rose like night, and, pro-
tected by its murky^ shadows the blush of mo-
desty, the reserve of pride, the decorum of pru-
dery were frequently thrown aside as useless
veils.

238 THE LAST MAN.

This was not universal. Among better na-
tures, anguish and dread, the fear of eternal
separation, and the awful wonder produced by
unprecedented calamity, drew closer the ties of
kindred and friendship. Philosophers opposed
their principles, as barriers to the inundation of
profligacy or despair, and the only ramparts to
protect the invaded territory of human life ; the
rehgious, hoping now for their reward, clung
fast to their creeds, as the rafts and planks which
over the tempest-vexed sea of suffering, would
bear them in safety to the harbour of the Un-
known Continent. The loving heart, obliged to
contract its view, bestowed its overflow of affec-
tion in triple portion on the few that remained.
Yet, even among these, the present, as an un-
alienable possession, became all of time to which
they dared commit the precious freight of their
hopes.

The experience of immemorial time had
taught us formerly to count our enjoyments by
years, and extend our prospect of life through

THE LAST MAN. 239

a lengthened period of progression and decay ;
the long road threaded a vast labyrinth, and the
Valley of the Shadow of Death, in which it ter-
minated, was hid by intervening objects. But
an earthquake had changed the scene — under our
very feet the earth yawned —deep and precipitous
the gulph below opened to receive us, while the
hours charioted us towards the chasm. But it
was winter now, and months must elapse before
we are hurled from our security. We became
ephemera, to whom the interval between the
rising and setting sun was as a long drawn year
of common time. We should never see our
children ripen into maturity, nor behold their
downy cheeks roughen, their blithe hearts sub-
dued by passion or care ; but we had them now
— they lived, and we lived — what more could we
desire ? With such schooling did my poor Idris
try to hush thronging fears, and in some mea-
sure succeeded. It was not as in summer-time,
when each hour might bring the dreaded fate —
until summer, we felt sure ; and this certainty,

240 THE LAST MAX.

short lived as it must be, yet for awhile satisfied
her maternal tenderness. I know not how to
express or communicate the sense of concen-
trated, intense, though evanescent transport,
that imparadized us in the present hour. Our
joys were dearer because we saw their end ; they
were keener because we felt, to its fullest ex-
tent, their value; they were purer because their
essence was sympathy — as a meteor is brighter
than a star, did the felicity of this winter contain
in itself the extracted delights of a long, long life.
How lovely is spring ! As we looked from
Windsor Terrace on the sixteen fertile counties
spread beneath, speckled by happy cottages and
wealthier towns, all looked as in former years,
heart-cheering and fair. The land was ploughed,
the slender blades of wheat broke through the
dark soil, the fruit trees were covered with buds,
the husbandman was abroad in the fields, the
milk-maid tripped home with well-filled pails^
the swallows and martins struck the sunny pools
with their long, pointed wings, the new dropped

THE LAST MAX. 241

lambs reposed on the young grass, the tender
growth of leaves —

Lifts its sweet head into the air. and feeds
A silent space with ever sprouting green.*

Man himself seemed to regenerate, and feel the
frost of winter yield to an elastic and warm re-
newal of life — reason told us that care and sorrow
would grow with the opening year^ — ^but how
to believe the ominous voice breathed up with
pestiferous vapours from fear's dim cavern,
while nature, laughing and scattering from her
green lap floAvers, and fruits, and sparkling
waters, invited us to join the gay masque of
young life she led upon the scene ?

Where was the plague ? '' Here — every
where !" one voice of horror and dismay ex-
claimed, when in the pleasant days of a sunny
May the Destroyer of man brooded again over
the earth, forcing the spirit to leave its organic

* Keats.

VOL. II. BI

242 THE LAST MAN.

chrysalis, and to enter upon an untried life.
AVith one mighty sweep of its potent ^veapon,
all caution, all care, all prudence were levelled
low : death sat at the tables of the great, stretched
itself on the cottager's pallet, seized the dastard
who fled, quelled the brave man who resisted :
despondency entered every heart, sorrow dimmed
every eye.

Sights of woe now became familiar to me, and
were I to tell all of anguish and pain that I
witnessed, of the despairing moans of age, and
the more terrible smiles of infancy in the bosom
of horror, my reader, his limbs quivering and
his hair on end, would wonder how I did not,
seized with sudden frenzy, dash myself from
some precipice, and so close my eyes for ever on
the sad end of the world. But the powers of
love, poetry, and creative fancy will dwell even
beside the sick of the plague, with the squalid,
and with the dying. A feeling of devotion, of
duty, of a high and steady purpose, elevated
me ; a strange joy filled my heart. In the

THE LAST MAN. 243

-midst of saddest grief I seemed to tread air,
while the spirit of good shed round me an am-
brosial atmosphere, which blunted the sting of
sympathy, and purified the air of sighs. If my
wearied soul flagged in its career, I thought of
my loved home, of the casket that contained
my treasures, of the kiss of love and the filial
caress, while my eyes were moistened by purest
dew, and my heart was at once softened and re-
freshed by thrilling tenderness.

Maternal affection had not rendered Idris
selfish; at the beginning of our calamity she
had, with thoughtless enthusiasm, devoted her-
self to the care of the sick and helpless. I
checked her; and she submitted to my rule, I
told her how the fear of her danger palsied my
exertions, how the knowledge of her safety
strung my nerves to endurance. I shewed her
the dangers which her children incurred during
her absence ; and she at length agreed not to go
beyond the inclosure of the forest. Indeed,
within the walls of the Castle we had a colony
M 2

244 THE LAST 3IAN.

of the unhappy, deserted by their relatives, and
in themselves helpless, sufficient to occupy her
time and attention, while ceaseless anxiety for
my welfare and the health of her children,
however she strove to curb or conceal it,
absorbed all her thoughts, and undermined
the vital principle. After watching over and
providing for their safety, her second care
was to hide from me her anguish and tears.
Each night I returned to the Castle, and found
there repose and love awaiting me. Often I
waited beside the bed of death till midnight,
and through the obscurity of rainy, cloudy
nights rode many miles, sustained by one cir-
cumstance only, the safety and sheltered repose
of those I loved. If some scene of tremendous
agony shook my frame and fevered mj' brow, I
would lay my head on the lap of Idris, and the
tumultuous pulses subsided into a temperate
flow — her smile could raise me from hopeless-
ness, her embrace bathe my sorrowing heart in
calm peace.

THE LAST MAN. 245

Summer advanced, and, crowned with the
sun'*s potent rays, plague shot her unerrmg shafts
over the earth. The nations beneath their in-
fluence bowed their heads, and died. The corn
that sprung up in plenty, lay in autumn rotting
on the ground, while the melancholy wretch who
had gone out to gather bread for his children,
lay stiff and plague- struck in the furrow. The
green woods waved their boughs majestically,
while the dying were spread beneath their shade,
answering the solemn melody with inharmonious
cries. The painted birds flitted through the
shades ; the careless deer reposed unhurt upon
the-fern — the oxen and the horses strayed from
their unguaided stables, and grazed among the
wheat, for death fell on man alone.

With summer and mortality grew our fears.
My poor love and I looked at each other, and
our babes. — " We will save them, Idris," I
said, " I will save them. Years hence we shall
recount to them our fears, then passed away
with their occasion. Though they only should

246 THE LAST MAN.

remain on the earth, still they shall live, nor shall
their cheeks become pale nor their s^veet voices
languish." Our eldest in some degree under-
stood the scenes passing around, and at times,
he with serious looks questioned rae concerning
the reason of so vast a desolation. But he was^
only ten years old ; and the hilarity of youth
soon chased unreasonable care from his brow.
Evelyn, a laughing cherub, a gamesome infant,
without idea of pain or sorrow, would, shaking
back his light curls from his eyes, make the
halls re-echo with his merriment, and in a thou-
sand artless ways attract our attention to his
play. Clara, our lovely gentle Clara, was our
stay, our solace, our delight. She made it her
task to attend the sick, comfort the sorrowing,
assist the aged, and partake the sports and
awaken the gaiety of the young. She flitted
through the rooms, like a good spirit, dispatched
from the celestial kingdom, to illumine our dark
hour with alien splendour. Gratitude and prai«e
marked where her footsteps had been. Yet,

THE LAST MAN. 247-

when she stood in unassuming simplicity before
us, playing with our children, or with girhsh assi-
duity performing little kind offices for Idris, one
wondered in what fair lineament of her pure
loveliness, in what soft tone of her thrilling voice,
so much of heroism, sagacity and active good-
ness resided.

The summer passed tediously, for we trusted
that winter would at least check the disease.
That it would vanish altogether was an hope too
dear — too heartfelt, to be expressed. When such
a thought was heedlessly uttered, the hearers,
with a gush of tears and passionate sobs, bore
witness how deep their fears were, how small
their hopes. For my own part, my exertions
for the public good permitted me to observe
more closely than most others, the virulence and
extensive ravages of our sightless enemy. A
sh ort month has destroyed a village, and where
in May the first person sickened, in June the
paths were deformed by unburied corpses — the
houses tenantless, no smoke arising from the

248 THE LAST MAN.

chimneys ; and the housewife's clock marked
only the hour when death had been triumphant.
From such scenes I have sometimes saved a
deserted infant — sometimes led a young and
grieving mother from the hfeless image of her
first born, or drawn the sturdy labourer from
childish weeping over his extinct family.

July is gone. August must pass, and by the
middle of September we may hope. Each day
was eagerly counted ; and the inhabitants of
towns, desirous to leap this dangerous interval,
plunged into dissipation, and strove, by riot, and
what they wished to imagine to be pleasure, to
banish thought and opiate despair. None but
Adrian could have tamed the motley population of
London, which, like a troop of unbitted steeds
rushing to 'their pastures, had thrown aside all mi-
nor fears, through the operation of the fear para-
mount. Even Adrian was obliged in part to
yield, that he might be able, if not to guide, at
least to set bounds to the license of the times.
The theatres were kept open ; every place of

THE LAST MAN. 249

public resort was frequented ; though he endea-
voured so to modify theiTi,^as might best quiet
the agitation of the spectators, and at the same
time prevent a reaction of misery when the
excitement was over. Tragedies deep and dire
were the chief favourites. Comedy broLight
with it too great a contrast to the inner despair :
when such were attempted, it was not unfrequent
for a comedian, in the midst of the laughter oc-
casioned by his disproportioned buffoonery, to find
a word or thought in his part that jarred with his
own sense of wretchedness, and burst from mimic
merriment into sobs and tears, while the spec-
tators, seized with irresistible sympathy, wept,
and the pantomimic revelry was changed to a
real exhibition of tragic passion.

It was not in my nature to derive consolation
from such scenes ; from theatres, whose buffoon
laughter and discordant mirth awakened dis-
tempered sympathy, or where fictitious tears
and wailings mocked the heart-felt grief within ;
from festival or crowded meeting, where hila-
M 3

250 THE LAST MAN.

rity sprung from the worst feelings of our na-
ture, or such enthrahnent of the better ones, as
impressed it with garish and false varnish ; from
assemblies of mourners in the guise of revellers.
Once however I witnessed a scefie of singular
ifiterest at one of the theatres, where nature
overpowered art, as an overflowing cataract will
tear away the puny manufacture of a mock
cascade, which had before been fed by a small
portion of its waters.

I had come to London to see Adrian. He
was not at the palace ; and, though the attend-
ants did not know whither he had gone, they
did not expect him till late at night. It was
between six and seven o'clock, a fine summer
afternoon, and I spent my leisure hours in a
ramble through the empty streets of London ;
now turning to avoid an approaching funeral,
now urged by curiosity to observe the state of
a particular spot; my wanderings were instinct
with pain, for silence and desertion characte-
rized every place I visited^ and the few beings I

THE LAST MAN. 251

met were so pale and woe-begone, so marked
with care and depressed by fear, that weary of
encountering only signs of misery, I began to
retread my steps towards home.

I was now in Holborn, and passed by a pub-
lic house filled with uproarious companions,
whose songs, laughter, and shouts were more
sorrowful than the pale looks and silence of the
mourner. Such an one was near, hovering
round this house. The sorry plight of her
dress displayed her poverty, she was ghastly
pale, and continued approaching, first the win-
dow and then the door of the house, as if
fearful, yet longing to enter. A sudden burst
of song and merriment seemed to sting her to
the heart ; she murmured, " Can he have the
heart ?^' and then mustering her courage, she
stepped within the threshold. The landlady
met her in the passage ; the poor creature asked,
"Is my husband here? Can I see George P""*

"See him," cried the woman, "yes, if you

<^nQ

THE LAST MAN.

go to him ; last night he was taken with the
plague, and we sent him to the hospital."

The unfortunate inquirer staggered against
a wall, a faint cry escaped her — " O ! were you
cruel enough," she exclaimed, " to send him
there r

The landlady meanwhile hurried away ; but
a more compassionate bar-maid gave her a de-
tailed account, the sum of which was, that her
husband had been taken ill, after a night of riot,
and sent by his boon companions with all expe-
dition to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I had
watched this scene, for there w^as a gentleness
about the poor woman that interested me ; she
now tottered away from the door, walking as
well as she coidd down Holborn Hill ; but her
strength soon failed her ; she leaned against a
wall, and her head sunk on her bosom, while her
pallid cheek became still more white. I went
up to her and offered my services. She hardly
looked up — " You can do me no good," she

THE LAST MAN. 253

replied; " I must go to the hospital ; if I do not
die before I get there."

There were still a few hackney-coaches ac-
customed to stand about the streets, more truly
from habit than for use. I put her in one of
these, and entered with her that I might secure
her entrance into the hospital. Our way was
short, and she said little ; except interrupted
ejaculations of reproach that he had left her, ex-
clamations on the unkindness of some of his
friends, and hope that she would find him alive.
There was a simple, natural earnestness about her
that interested me in her fate, especially when she
assured me that her husband was the best of men,
— had been so, till want of business during these
unliappy times had thrown him into bad com-
pany. " He could not bear to come home,'*
she said, " only to see our children die. A man
cannot have the patience a mother has, with her
own flesh and blood."

We were set down at St. Bartholomew's, and
entered the wretched precincts of the house of

254 THE LAST MAN.

disease. The poor creature clung closer to me,
as she saw with what heartless haste they bore
the dead from the wards, and took them into a
room, whose half-opened door displayed a num-
ber of corpses, horrible to behold by one unac-
customed to such scenes. We were directed to
the ward where her husband had been first
taken, and still was, the nurse said, if alive. My
companion looked eagerly from one bed to the
other, till at the end of the ward she espied, on
a wretched bed, a squalid, haggard creature,
writhing under the torture of disease. She
rushed towards him, she embraced him, blessing
God for his preservation.

The enthusiasm that inspired her with this
strange joy, blinded her to the horrors about her;
but they v/ere intolerably agonizing to me.
The ward was filled with an effluvia that caused
my heart to heave with painful qualms. The
dead were carried out, and the sick brought in,
with like indifference; some were screaming
with pain, others laughing from the influence of

THE LAST MAN. 255

more terrible delirium ; some were attended by
weeping, despairing relations, others called aloud
with thrilling tenderness or reproach on the
friends who had deserted them, while the nurses
went from bed to bed, incarnate images of de-
spair, neglect, and death. I gave gold to my
luckless companion ; I recommended her to the
care of the attendants ; I then hastened away ;
while the tormentor, the imagination, busied
itself in picturing my own loved ones, stretched
on such beds, attended thus. The country
afforded no such mass of horrors ; solitary
wretches died in the open fields ; and I have
found a survivor in a vacant village, contending
at once with famine and disease ; but the assem-
bly of pestilence, the banqueting hall of death,
was spread only in London.

I rambled on, oppressed, distracted by pain-
ful emotions — suddenly I found myself before
Drury Lane Theatre. The play was Macbeth
— the first actor of the age was there to exert
his powers to drug with irreflection the auditors ;

^56 THE LAST MAX.

such a medicine I yearned for, so T entered. The
theatre was tolerably well filled. Shakspeare,
whose popularity was established by the ap-
proval of four centuries, had not lost his in-
fluence even at this dread period ; but was still
" Ut magus," the wizard to rule our hearts
and govern our imaginations. I came in dur-
ing the interval between the third and fourth
act. I looked round on the audience ; the fe-
males were mostly of the lower classes, but the
men were of all ranks, come hither to forget
awhile the protracted scenes of wretchedness,
which awaited them at their miserable homes.
The curtain drew up, and the stage presented
the scene of the witches' cave. The wildness
and supernatural machinery of Macbeth, was a
pledge that it could contain little directly con-
nected with our present circumstances. Great
^pains had been taken in the scenery to give the
semblance of reality to the impossible. The
extreme darkness of the stage, whose only light
was received from the fire under the cauldron.

THE LAST MAX. 257

joined to a kind of mist that floated about it,
rendered the unearthy shapes of the witches ob-
scure and shadowy. It was not there decrepid
old hags that bent over their pot throwing' in the
grim ingredients of the magic charm, but forms
frightful, unreal, and fanciful. The entrance
of Hecate, and the wild music that followed^
took us out of this world. The cavern shape
the stage assumed, the beetling rocks, the gJare
of the fire, the misty shades that crossed the
scene at times, the music in harmony with all
witch-like fancies, permitted the imagination to re-
vel, without fear of contradiction, or reproof from
reason or the heart. The entrance of Macbeth
did not destroy the illusion, for he was actuated
by the same feelings that inspired us, and while
the work of magic proceeded we sympathized in
his wonder and his daring, and gave ourselves
up with our whole souls to the influence of-
scenic delusion. I felt the beneficial result of
such excitement, in a renewal of those pleasing
flights of fancy to which I had long been a

258 THE LAST MAN.

Stranger. The effect of this scene of incanta^
tion communicated a portion of its power to that
which followed. We forgot that Malcolm and
Macduff were mere human beings, acted upon
by such simple passions as warmed our own
breasts. By slow degrees however we were
drawn to the real interest of the scene. A shud-
der like the swift passing of an electric shock
ran through the house, when Rosse exclaimed,
in answer to " Stands Scotland where it did ?""

Alas, poor country ;
Almost afraid to know itself ! It cannot
Be called our mother, but our grave : where nothing.
But who knows nothing, is once seen. to smile;
Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rent the air,
Are made, not marked ; where violent sorrow seems
A modern extasy : the dead man's knell
Is there scarce asked, for who ; and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps.
Dying, or ere they sicken.

Each word struck the sense, as our life's passing
bell ; we feared to look at each other, but bent
our gaze on the stage, as if our eyes could fall
innocuous on that alone. The person who

THE LAST MAN. 259

played the part of Kosse, suddenly became
aware of the dangerous ground he trod. He
was an inferior actor, but truth now made him
excellent ; as he went on to announce to Mac-
duff the slaughter of his family, he was afraid
to. speak, trembling from apprehension of a
burst of grief from the audience, not from his
fellow-mime. Each word was drawn out with
difficulty ; real anguish painted his features ;
bis eyes were now lifted in sudden horror, now
fixed in dread upon the ground. This shew of
terror encreased ours, we gasped with him,
each neck was stretched out, each face changed
with the actor's changes — at length while ]\fac-
duif, who, attending to his pait, was unob-
servant of the high wrought sympathy of the
house, cried with well acted passion :

All my pretty ones ?
Did you say all ?— O hell kite ! All ?
What! all my pretty chickens, and their dam,
At one fell swoop !

A pawg of taBieless grief wrenched every heart,

a hurst of despair was echoed from every lip. —

S60 THE LAST MAX.

I had entered into the universal feeHng — I had
been absorbed by the terrors of Rosse — I re-
echoed the cry of Macduff, and then rushed
out as from an hell of torture, to find calm in the
free air and silent street.

Free the air was not, or the street silent.
Oh, how I longed then for the dear soothings
of maternal Nature, as my wounded heart was
still further stung by the roar of heartless mer-
riment from the public-house, by the sight of
the drunkard reeling home, having lost the me-
mory of what he would find there in oblivious
debauch, and by the more appalling salutations
of those melancholy beings to whom the name of
home was a mockery. I ran on at my utmost
speed until I found myself I knew not how,
close to Westminster Abbey, and was attracted
by the deep and swelling tone of the organ. I
entered with soothing awe the lighted chancel,
and listened to the solemn rehgious chaunt,
which spoke peace and hope to the unhappy.
The notes, freighted with man's dearest prayers.

THE LAST MAN. 261

re-echoed through the dim aisles, and the bleed-
ing of the soul's wounds was staunched by hea-
venly balm. In spite of the misery I depre-
cated, and could not understand ; in spite of the
cold hearths of wide London, and the corpse-
streAvn fields of my native land ; in spite of all
the variety of agonizing emotions I had that
evening experienced, I thought that in reply to
our melodious adjurations, the Creator looked
down in compassion and promise of relief; the
awful peal of the heaven-winged music seemed
fitting voice wherewith to commune with the
Supreme ; calm was produced by its sound, and
by the sight of many other human creatures
offering up prayers and submission with me. A
sentiment approaching happiness followed the
total resignation of one's being to the guardian-
ship of the world's ruler. Alas ! with the fail-
ing of this solemn strain, the elevated spirit sank
again to earth. Suddenly one of the choristers
died — he was lifted from his desk, the vaults
below were hastily opened — he was consigned

262 THE LAST MAN.

with a few muttered prayers to the darksome
cavern, abode of thousands who had gone be-
fore— now wide yawning to receive even all who
fulfilled the funeral rites. In vain I would
then have turned from this scene, to darkened
aisle or lofty dome, echoing with melodious
pi-aise. In the open air alone I found relief;
among nature's beauteous works, her God re-
assumed his attribute of benevolence, and again
*I could trust that he who built up the moun-
tains, planted the forests, and poured out the
rivers, would erect another state for lost hu-
manity, where we might awaken again to our
affections, our happiness, and our faith.

Fortunately for me those circumstances were
of rare occurrence that obliged me to visit Lon-
don, and my duties were confined to the rural
district which our lofty castle overlooked ; and
here labour stood in the place of pastime, to oc-
cupy such of the country-people as were suffi-
ciently exempt from sorrow or disease. My
endeavours were directed towards urging them

THE LAST MAK. ^63

to their usual attention to their crops, and to
the acting as if pestilence did not exist. The
mower's scythe was at times heard ; yet the joy-
less haymakers' after they had listlessly turned
the grass, forgot to cart it ; the shepherd, when
he had sheared his sheep, would let the wool lie
to be scattered by the winds, deeming it useless
to provide clothing for another winter. At
times however the spirit of life was awakened
hy these employments ; the sun, the refreshing
breeze, the sweet smell of the hay, the rustling
leaves and prattling rivulets brought repose to
the agitated bosom, and bestowed a feeling akin
to happiness on the apprehensive. Nor, strange
to say, was the time without its pleasures.
Young couples, who had loved long and hope-
lessly, suddenly found every impediment re-
moved, and wealth pour in from the death of
relatives. The very danger drew them closer.
The immediate peril urged them to seize the
immediate opportunity ; wildly and passionately

THE LAST MAX.

they sought to know what delights existence
afforded, before they yielded to death, and

Snatching their pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life,*

they defied the conquering pestilence to destroy
what had been, or to erase even from their death-
bed thoughts the sentiment of happiness which
had been theirs.

One instance of this kind came immediately
under our notice, where a high-bprn girl had in
early youth given her heart to one of meaner
extraction. He was a schoolfellow and friend
of her brother's, and usually spent a part of the
holidays at the mansion of the duke her father.
They had played together as children, been the
confidants of each other's little secrets, mutual
aids and consolers in difficulty and sorrow.
Love had crept in, noiseless, terrorless at first,
till each felt their life bound up in the other,

* Andrew Marvell.

THE LAST MAX. S66

«ind at the same time knew that they must part.
Their extreme youth, and the purity of their
attachment, made them yield with less resistance
to the tyranny of circumstances. The father of
the fair Juliet separated them ; but not until the
young lover had promised to remain absent
only till he had rendered himself worthy of her,
and she had vowed to preserve hei* virgin heart,
his treasure, till he returned to claim and pos-
sess it.

Plague came, threatening to destroy at
once the aim of the ambitious and the hopes

of love. Long the Duke of L derided

the idea that there could be danger while
he pursued his plans of cautious seclusion ; and
he so far succeeded, that it was not till this se-
cond summer, that the destroyer, at one fell
stroke, overthrew his precautions, his security,
and his life. Poor Juliet saw one by one, father,
mother, brothers, and sisters, sicken and die.
Most of the servants fled on the first appearance
of disease, those who remained were infected
mortally ; no neighbour or rustic ventured

VOL. II. N

THE LAST MAN.

within the verge pf contagion. By a strange
fatahty Juhet alone escaped, and she to the last
waited on her relatives, and smoothed the pillow
of death. The moment at length came, when
the last blow was given to the last of the house :
the youthful survivor of her race sat alone
among the dead. There was no living being
near to soothe her, or withdraw her from this
hideous company. With the declining heat of
a September night, a whirlwind of storm, thun-
der, and hail, rattled round the house, and with
ghastly harmony sung the dirge of her family.
She sat upon the ground absorbed in wordless
despair, when through the gusty wind and bicker-
ing rain she thought she heard her name called.
Whose could that familiar voice be ? Not one
of her relations, for they lay glaring on her with
stony eyes. Again her name was syllabled,
and she shuddered as she asked herself, am I
becoming mad, or am I dying, that I hear the
voices of the departed ? A second thought
passed, swift as an arrow, into her brain; she
rushed to the window ; and a flash of lightning

THE LAST MAN. 26T

shewed to her the expected visi(>n, her lover in
the shrubbery beneath ; joy lent her strength
to descend the stairs, to open the door, and then
she fainted in his supporting arms.

A thousand times she reproached herself, as
with a crime, that she should revive to happi-
ness with him. The natural clinging of the
human mind to life and joy was in its full
energy in her young heart; she gave herself
impetuously up to the enchantment : they were
married; and in their radiant features I saw
incarnate, for the last time, the spirit of love, of
rapturous sympathy, which once had been the
life of the world.

I envied them, but fell how impossible it was
to imbibe the same feeling, now that years had
multiplied my ties in the world. Above all, the
anxious mother, my own beloved and drooping
Idris, claimed my earnest care ; I could not re-
proach the anxiety that never for a moment
slept in her heart, but I exerted myself to dis-
tract her attention from too keen an observation
N 2

THE LAST MAK,

of the tinith of things, of the near and nearer
approaches of disease, misery, and death, of the
wild look of our attendants as intelligence of
another and yet another death reached us ; for
to the last something new occurred that seemed
to transcend in horror all that had gone before.
Wretched beings crawled to die under our suc-
couring roof ; the inhabitants of the Castle de-
creased daily, while the survivors huddled to-
gether in fear, and, as in a famine-struck boat,
the sport of the wild, interminable waves, each
looked in the other's face, to guess on whom the
death-lot would next fall. All this I endea-
voured to veil, so that it might least impress my
Idris; yet, as I have said, my courage survived
even despair: I might be vanquished, but I
would not yield.

One day, it was the ninth of September,
seemed devoted to every disaster, to every
harrowing incident. Early in the day, I
heard of the arrival of the aged grand-
mother of one of our servants at the Castle.

TTIE LAST MAN. 269

This old woman had reached her hundredth
year ; her skin was shrivelled, her form was bent
and lost in extreme decrepitude ; but as still
from year to year she continued in existence,
out-Kving many younger and stronger, she began
to feel as if she were to live for ever. The
plague came, and the inhabitants of her village
died. Clinging, with the dastard feeling of the
a£«J, to the remnant of her spent life, she had,
on hearing that the pestilence had come into her
neighbourhood, barred her door, and closed her
casement, refusing to communicate with any. She
would wander out at night to get food, and re-
turned home, pleased that she had met no one, that
she wasin no danger from the plague. As the earth
became more desolate, her difficulty in acquiring
sustenance increased ; at first, her son, who lived
siear, had humoured her by placing articles of
food in her way : at last he died. But, even
though threatened by famine, her fear of the
plague was paramount ; and her greatest care
to avoid her fellow creatures. She grew

270 THE LAST MAN.

weaker each day, and eacli day she had further
to go. The night before, she had reached Dat-
chet; and, prowling about, had found a baker's
shop open and deserted. Laden with spoil, she
hastened to return, and lost her way. The night
was windless, hot, and cloudy ; her load became
too heavy for her; and one by one she threw
away her loaves, still endeavouring to get along,
though her hobbling fell into lameness, and her
weakness at last into inability to move.

She lay down among the tall corn, and fell
asleep. Deep in midnight, she was awaked by a
rustling near her ; she would have started up,
but her stiff joints refused to obey her will. A
low moan close to her ear followed, and the
rustling increased ; she heard a smothered voice
breathe out. Water, Water ' several times ; and
then again a sigh heaved from the heart of the
sufferer. The old woman shuddered, she con-
trived at length to sit upright ; but her teeth
chattered, and her knees knocked together —
close, very close, lay a half-naked figure, just

THE LAST MAN. 271

discernible in the gloom, and the cry for water
and the stifled moan were again uttered. Her
motions at length attracted the attention of her
unknown companion ; her hand vsas seized with
a convulsive violence that made the grasp feel
like iron, the fingers like the keen teeth of a trap.
— " At last you are come !"* were the words
given forth — but this exertion was the last effort
of the dying — the joints relaxed, the figure fell
prostrate, one low moan, the last, marked the
moment of death. Morning broke; and the old
woman saw the corpse, marked with the fatal
disease, close to her ; her wrist was livid with the
hold loosened by death. She felt struck by the
plague ; her aged frame was unable to bear her
away with sufficient speed ; and now, believing
hei'self infected, she no longer dreaded the asso ,
ciation of others ; but, as swiftly as she might,
came to her grand-daughter, at Windsor Castle,
there to lament and die. The sight was horri-
ble; still she clung to life, and lamented her mis-
chance with cries and hideous groans; while the

272 THE LAST MAS',

swift advance of the disease shewed, what prored
to be the fact, that she could not survive many
hours.

While I was directing (hat the necessary care
should be taken of her, Clara came in ; she wa&
trembling and pale; and, when I anxiously asked
her the cause of her agitation, she threw herself
into my arms weeping and exclaiming — " U ncle^
dearest uncle, do not hate me for ever ! I must
tell you, for you must know, that Evelyn, poor
little Evelyn*" — her voice was choked by sobs.
The fear of so mighty a calamity as the loss of
our adored infant made the current of my blood
pause with chilly horror ; but the remembrance
of the mother restored my presence of mind. I
sought the little bed of my darling ; he was
oppressed by fever ; but I trusted, I fondly "and
fearfully trusted, that there were no symptoms
of the plague. He was not three years old, and
his illness appeared only one of those attacks
incident to infancy. I watched him long — his
heavy half-closed lids, his burning cheeks and

THE LAST MAN. 273

restless twining of his small fingers — the fever was
violent, the torpor complete — enough, without
the greater fear of pestilence, to awaken alarm.
Idris must not see him in this state. Clara,
though only twelve years old, was rendered,
through extreme sensibility, so prudent and
careful, that I felt secure in entrusting the
charge of him to her, and it was my task to pre-
vent Idris from observing their absence. I ad-
ministered the fitting remedies, and left my
sweet niece to watch beside him, and bring me
notice of any change she should observe.

I then went to Idris, contriving in my way,
plausible excuses for remaining all day in the
Castle, and endeavouring to disperse the traces
of care from my brow. Fortunately she was not
alone. I found Merrival, the astronomer, with
her. He was far too long sighted in Jiis view of
humanity to heed the casualties of the day, and
lived in the midst of contagion unconscious of
its existence. This poor man, learned as La
Place, guileless and unforeseeing as a child, had
N 3

S74 THE LAST MAN.

often been on the point of starvation, he, his pale
wife and numerous oiFspring, while he neither
felt hunger, nor observed distress. His astrono-
mical theories absorbed him ; calculations were
scrawled with coal on the bare walls of his gar-
ret: a hard-earned guinea, or an article of
dress, was exchanged for a book without remorse ;
he neither heard his children cry, nor observed
his companion's emaciated form, and the excess
of calamity was merely to him as the occurrence
of a cloudy night, when he would have given
his right hand to observe a celestial phenomenon.
His wife was one of those wondrous beings,
to be found only among women, with affec-
tions not to be diminished by misfortune.
Her mind was divided between boundless
admiration for her husband, and tender
anxiety for her children — she waited on him,
worked for them, and never complained,
though care rendered her life one long-drawn,
melancholy dream.

He had introduced himself to Adrian, by a

THE LAST MAN. 275

request he made to observe some planetary mo-
tions from his glass. His poverty was easily
detected and relieved. He often thanked us for
the books we lent him, and for the use of our
instruments, but never spoke of his altered abode
or change of circumstances. His wife assured
us, that he had not observed any difference,
except in the absence of the children from his
study, and to her infinite surprise he complained
of this unaccustomed quiet.

He came now to announce to us the comple-
tion of his Essay on the Pericyclical Motions
of the Earth's Axis, and the precession of the
equinoctial points. If an old Roman of the period
of the Republic had returned to life, and talked
of the impending election of some laurel-crowned
consul, or of the last battle with Mithridates,
his ideas would not have been more alien to the
times, than the conversation of Merrival. Man,
no longer with an appetite for sympathy, clothed
his thoughts in visible signs ; nor were there any
readers left: while each one, having thrown away

S76 THE LAST MAK.

* his sword with opposing shield alone, awaited the
plague, Merrival talked of the state of mankind
six thousand years hence. He might with equal
interest to us, have added a commentary, to de-
scribe the unknown and unimaginable lineaments
of the creatures, who would then occupy the
vacated dwelling of mankind. We had not the
heart to undeceive the poor old man ; and at the
moment I came in, he was reading parts of his
book to Idris, asking what answer could be
given to this or that position,

Idris could not refrain from a smile, as she
listened ; she had already gathered from him
that his family was alive and in health ; though
not apt to forget the precipice of time on which
she stood, yet I could perceive that she was
amused for a moment, by the contrast between
the contracted view we had so long taken of
human life, and the seven league strides with
which Merrival paced a coming eternity. I was
<rlad to see her smile, because it assured me of
her total ignorance of her infant's danger : but

THE LAST MAN. 277

I shuddered to think of the revulsion that would
be occasioned by a discovery of the truth.
While Merrival was talking, Clara softly open-
ed a door behind Idris, and beckoned me to
come with a gesture and look of grief. A mir-
ror betrayed the sign to Idris — she started up.
To suspect evil, to perceive that, Alfred being
with us, the danger must regard her youngest
darling, to fly across the long chambers into his
apartment, was the work but of a moment.
There she beheld her Evelyn lying fever-stricken
and motionless. I followed her, and strove to
Inspire more hope than I could myself entertain;
but she shook her head mournfully. Anguish
deprived her of presence of mind ; she gave up
to me and Clara the physician's and nurse's
,parts; she sat by the bed, holding one little
burning hand, and, with glazed eyes fixed on her
babe, passed the long day in one unvaried agony.
It was not the plague that visited our little
boy so roughly ; but she could not listen to my
assurances; apprehension deprived her of judg-

S78 THE LAST MAN.

ment and reflection ; even slight convulsion of
her child's features shook her frame — if he
moved, she dreaded the instant crisis ; if he re-
mained still, she saw death in his torpor, and
the cloud on her brow darkened.

The poor little thing's fever encreased towards
night. The sensation is most dreary, to use no
stronger term, with which one looks forward
to passing the long hours of night beside a
sick bed, especially if the patient be an infant,
who cannot explain its pain, and wh.ose flicker-
ing life resembles the wasting flame of the watch-
light,

Vfhose narrow fire
Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge
Devouring darkness hovers.*

With eagerness one turns toward the east, with
angry impatience one marks the unchequered
darkness ; the crowing of a cock, that sound of
glee during-day time, comes wailing and un-
tuneable — the creaking of rafters, and slight

* The Ceiici

THE LAST MAN. 279

stir of invisible insect is heard and felt as the
signal and type of desolation. Clara, overcome by
weariness, had seated herself at the foot of her
cousin's bed, and in spite of her efforts slumber
weighed down her lids; twice or thrice she
shook it oif; but at length she was conquered
and slept. Idris sat at the bedside, holding
Evelyn's hand ; we were afraid to speak to each
other; I watched the stars — I hung over my
child — I felt his little pulse — I drew near the
mother — again I receded. At the turn of morn-
ing a gentle sigh from the patient attracted me,
the burning spot on his cheek faded — his pulse
beat softly and regularly — torpor yielded to sleep.
For a long time I dared not liope ; but when his
unobstructed breathing and the moisture that suf-
fused his forehead, were tokens no longer to be
mistaken of the departure of mortal malady, I
ventured to whisper the news of the change to
Idris, and at length succeeded in persuading her
that I spoke truth.

But neither this assurance, nor the speedy con-

280 THE LAST MAN,

valescence of our child could restore her, even to
the portion of peace she before enjoyed. Her
fear had been too deep, too absorbing, too en-
tire, to be changed to security. She felt as if
during her past calm she had dreamed, but was
now awake ; she was

As one
In some lone watch-tower on the deep, awakened
From soothing visions of the home he loves,
Trembling to hear the wrathful billows roar;*

as one who has been cradled by a storm, and
awakes to find the vessel sinking. Before, she
had been visited by pangs of fear — now, she
never enjoyed an interval of hope. No smile of
the heart ever irradiated her fair countenance ;
sometimes she forced one, and then gushing
tears would flow, and the sea of grief close above
these wrecks of past happiness. Still while I
was near her. she could not be in utter despair
— she fully confided herself to me — she did not
seem to fear my death, or revert to its possibility ;

* The Brides' Tragedy, by T. L. Beddoes, Esq.

THE LAST MAN. ^l

to my guardianship she consigned the full
freight of her anxieties, reposing on my love, as
a wind-nipped fawn by the side of a doe, as a
wounded nestling under its mother's wing, as a
tiny, shattered boat, quivering still, beneath some
protecting willow- tree. While I, not proudly
as in days of joy, yet tenderly, and with glad
consciousness of the comfort I afforded, drew
my trembling girl close to my heart, and tried
to ward every painful thought or rough cir-
cumstance from her sensitive nature.

One other incident occurred at the end of this
summer. The Countess of Windsor, Ex-Queen
of England, returned from Germany. She had
at the beginning of the season quitted the vacant
city of Vienna ; and, unable to tame her haughty
mind to anything like submission, she had
delayed at Hamburgh, and, when at last she
came to London, many weeks elapsed before
she gave Adrian notice of her arrival. In spite
of her coldness and long absence, he welcomed
her with sensibility, displaying such affection as

^82

THE LAST MAN.

sought to heal the wounds of pride and sorrow,
and was repulsed only by her total apparent
want of sympathy. Idris heard of her mother's
return with pleasure. Her own maternal feel-
ings were so ardent, that she imagined her
parent must now, in this waste world, have lost
pride and harshness, and would receive with
delight her filial attentions. The first check to
her duteous demonstrations was a formal inti-
mation from the fallen majesty of England, that
I was in no manner to be intruded upon her.
She consented, she said, to forgive her daughter,
and acknowledge her grandchildren ; larger con-
cessions must not be expected.

To me this proceeding appeared (if so light a
term may be permitted) extremely whimsical.
Now that the race of man had lost in fact all
distinction of rank, this pride was doubly
fatuitous ; now that we felt a kindred, fraternal
nature with all who bore the stamp of humanity,
this angry reminiscence of times for ever gone,
was worse than foolish. Idris was too much

THE LAST MAN. 283

taken up by her own dreadful fears, to be angry,
hardly grieved ; for she judged that insensibility
must be the source of this continued rancour.
This was not altogether the fact: but pre-
dominant self-will assumed the arms and masque
of callous feeling; and the haughty lady dis-
dained to exhibit any token of the struggle she
endured ; while the slave of pride, she fancied
that she sacrificed her happiness to immutable
principle.

False was all this — false all but the affections
of our nature, and the links of sympathy with
pleasure or pain. There was but one good and
one evil in the world— life and death. The
pomp of rank, the assumption of power, the
possessions of wealth vanished like morning mist.
One living beggar had become of more worth
than a national peerage of dead lords — alas the
day ! — than of dead heroes, patriots, or men of
genius. There was much of degradation in
this: for even vice and virtue had lost their

284 THE LAST MAN.

attributes— life— life— the continuation of our
animal mechanism— was the Alpha and Omega of
the desires, the prayers, the prostrate ambition of
human race.

THE LAST MAN. 285

CHAPTER IX.

Half England was desolate, when October
came, and the equinoctial winds swept over the
earth, chilling the ardours of the unhealthy
season. The summer, which was uncom-
monly hot, had been protracted into the begin-
ning of this month, when on the eighteenth
a sudden change was brought about from
summer temperature to winter frost. Pes-
tilence then made a pause in her death-
dealing career. Gasping, not daring to name
our hopes, yet full even to the brim with intense
expectation, we stood, as a ship- wrecked sailor
stands on a barren rock islanded by the ocean,
watching a distant vessel, fancying that now it
nears, and then again that it is bearing from

286 THE LAST MAN.

sight. This promise of a renewed lease of life
turned rugged natures to melting tenderness,
and by contrast filled the soft with harsh and un-
natural sentiments. When it seemed destined that
all were to die, we were reckless of the how
and when — now that the virulence of the dis-
ease was mitigated, and it appeared willing
to spare some, each was eager to be among the
elect, and clung to life with dastard tenacity.
Instances of desertion became more frequent;
and even murders, which made the hearer sick
with horror, where the fear of contagion had
armed those nearest in blood against each other.
But these smaller and separate tragedies were
about to yield to a mightier interest — and, while
we were promised calm from infectious influences,
a tempest arose wilder than the winds, a tempest
bred by the passions of man, nourished by his
most violent impulses, unexampled and dire.

A number of people from North America,
the relics of that populous continent, had set
sail for the East with mad desire of change.

THE LAST MAN. 287

leaving their native plains for lands not less
afflicted than their own. Several hundreds
landed in Ireland, about the first of November,
and took possession of such vacant habitations
as they could find ; seizing upon the superabun-
dant food, and the stray cattle. As they exhausted
the produce of one spot, they went on to ano-
ther. At length they began to interfere with
the inhabitants, and strong in their concentrated
numbers, ejected the natives from their dwellings,
and robbed them of their winter store. A few
events of this kind roused the fiery nature of
the Irish ; and they attacked the invaders. Some
were destroyed ; the major part escaped by
quick and well ordered movements ; and danger
made them careful. Their numbers ably ar-
ranged ; the very deaths among them concealed;
moving on in good order, and apparently given up
to enjoyment, they excited the envy of the Irish.
The Americans permitted a few to join their
band, and presently the recruits outnumbered
the strangers — nor did they join with them, nor

288 THE LAST MAN.

iiiMtate the admirable order which, preserved
by the Trans-Atlantic chiefs, rendered them
at once secure and formidable. The Irish fol-
lowed their track in disorganized multitudes ;
each day encreasing ; each day becoming more
lawless. The Americans were eager to escape
from the spirit they had roused, and, reaching
the eastern shores of the island, embarked for
England. Their incursion would hardly have
been felt had they come alone; but the Irish,
collected in unnatural numbers, began to feel
the inroads of famine, and they followed in the
wake of the Americans for England also. The
crossing of the sea could not arrest their pro-
gress. The harbours of the desolate sea-ports
of the west of Ireland were filled with vessels
of all sizes, from the man of war to the small
fishers'* boat, which lay sailorless, and rotting on
the lazy deep. The emigrants embarked by hun-
dreds, and unfurling their sails with rude hands,
made strange havoc of buoy and cordage.
Those who modestly betook themselves to the

THE LAST MAN. 289

smaller craft, for the most part achievetl their
watery journey in safety. Some, in the true
spirit of reckless enterprise, went on board a
ship of an hundred and twenty guns ; the vast
hull drifted with the tide out of the bay, and
after many hours its crew of landsmen contrived
to spread a great part of her enormous canvass
— the wind took it, and while a thousand mis-
takes of the helmsman made her present her
tiead now to one point, and now to another,
the vast fields of canvass that formed her sails
flapped with a sound like that of a huge cata-
ract; or such as a sea-like forest may give
forth when buffeted by an equinoctial north-
wind. The port-holes were open, and with
every sea, which as she lurched, washed her
decks, they received whole tons of water. The
difficulties were increased by a fresh breeze
which began to blow, whistling among the
shrowds, dashing the sails this way and that,
and rending them with horrid split, and such
whir as may have visited the dreams of Milton,

VOL. II. o

290 THE LAST MAN.

when he imagined the winnowing of the arch-
fiend's van-hke wings, which encreased the
uproar of wild chaos. These sounds were
mingled with the roaring of the sea, the
splash of the chafed billows round the vesseFs
sides, and the gurgling up of the water in the
hold. The crew, many of whom had never seen
the sea before, felt indeed as if heaven and
earth came ruining together, as the vessel dipped
her bows in the waves, or rose high upon them.
Their yells were drowned in the clamour of
elements, and the thunder rivings of their un-
wieldy habitation — they discovered at last that
the water gained on them, and they betook them-
selves to their pumps ; they might as well have
laboured to empty the ocean by bucketfuls.
As the sun went down, the gale encreased ; the
ship seemed to feel her danger, she was now
completely water-logged, and presented other
indications of settling before she went down.
The bay was crowded with vessels, wlwse
crewsj for the most part, were observing the

THE LAST MAN. 291

uncouth sportlngs of this luige unwieldy ma-
chine— they saw her gradually sink ; the wa-
ters now rising above her lower decks— they
could hardly wink before she had utterly
disappeared, nor could the place where the sea
had closed over her be at all discerned. Some
few of her crew were saved, but the greater
part clinging to her cordage and masts went
down with her, to rise only when death loosened
their hold.

This event caused many of those who were about
to sail, to put foot again on firm land, ready to
encounter any evil rather than to rush into the
yawning jaws of the pitiless ocean. But thes3
were few, in comparison to the numbers who
actually crossed. Many went up as high as
Belfast to ensure a shorter passage, and then
journeying south through Scotland, they were
joined by the poorer natives of that coun-
try, and all poured with one consent into
England.

Such incursions struck the English widi

o 2

292 THE LAST MAN.

affright, in all those towns where there was still
sufficient population to feel the change. There
was room enough indeed in our hapless country
for twice the number of invaders; but their
lawless spirit instigated them to violence ; they
took a delight in thrusting the possessors from
their houses; in seizing on some mansion of
luxury, where the noble dwellers secluded them-
selves in fear of the plague ; in forcing these of
either sex to become their servants and purvey-
ors ; till, the ruin complete in one place, they
removed their locust visitation to another.
When unopposed they spread their ravages
wide ; in cases of danger they clustered, and
by dint of numbers overthrew their weak and
despairing foes. They came from the east and
the north, and directed their course without ap-
parent motive, but unanimously towards our un-
happy metropolis.

Communication had been to a great degree
cut off through the paralyzing effects of pesti-
lence, so that the van of our invaders had pro-

THE LAST MAN. 293

ceeded as far as Manchester and Derby, before
we received notice of their arrival. They swept
the country like a conquering army, burning —
laying waste— murdering. The lower and vaga-
bond English joined with them. Some few of
the Lords Lieutenant who remained, endeavour-
ed to collect the militia — but the ranks were
vacant, panic seized on all, and the opposition
that was made only served to increase the auda-
city and cruelty of the enemy. They talked of
taking London, conquering England — calling to
mind the long detail of injuries which had for
many years been forgotten. Such vaunts dis-
played their weakness, rather than their strength
—yet still they might do extreme mischief,
which, ending in their destruction, would ren-
der them at last objects of compassion and
remorse.

We were now taught how, in the beginning of
the world, mankind clothed their enemies in im-
possible attributes — and how details proceeding
from mouth to mouth, might, like Virgil's ever-

294 THE LAST MAN.

•

growing Rumour, reach the heavens with her
brow, and clasp Hesperus and Lucifer with her
outstretched hands. Gorgon and Centaur, dra-
gon and iron-hoofed Hon, vast sea-monster and
gigantic hydra, were but types of the strange
and appalling accounts brought to London con-
cerning our invaders. Their landing was long
unknown, but having now advanced within an
hundred miles of London, the country people
flying before them arrived in successive troops,
each exaggerating the numbers, fury, and cruelty
of the assailants. Tvimult filled the before quiet
streets — women and children deserted their
homes, escaping they knew not whither — fa-
thers, husbands, and sons, stood trembling, not
for themselves, but for their loved and defence-
less relations. As the country people poured
into London, the citizens fled southwards — they
climbed the higher edifices of the town, fancying
that they could discern the smoke and flames
the enemy spread around them. As Windsor
lay, to a great degree, in the line of march from

THE LAST MAN. 295

the west, I removed my family to London, as-
signing the Tower for their sojourn, and joining
Adrian, acted as his Lieutenant in the coming
strujjffle.

We employed only two days in our prepara-
tions, and made good use of them. Artillery
and arras were collected ; the remnants of
such regiments, as could be brought through
many losses into any show of muster, were put
under arms, with that appearance of military
discipline which might encourage our own party,
and seem most formidable to the disorganized
multitude of our enemies. Even music was not
waiiting: banners floated in the air, and the
slirill fife and loud trumpet breathed forth
sounds of encouragement and victory. A prac-
tised ear might trace an undue faltering in the
step of the soldiers; but tliis was not occa-
sioned so much by fear of the adversary, as
by disease, by sorrow, and by fatal prognostica-
tions, which often weighed most potently on the

^96 THE LAST MAN.

brave, and quelled the manly heart to abject
subjection.

Adrian led the troops. He was full of care.
It was small relief to him that our discipline
should gain us success in such a conflict ; while
plague still hovered to equalize the conqueror
and the conquered, it was not victory that he
desired, but bloodless peace. As we advanced,
we were met by bands of peasantry, whose al-
most naked condition, whose despair and horror,
told at once the fierce nature of the coming
enemy. The senseless spirit of conquest and
thirst of spoil blinded them, while with insane
fury they deluged the country in ruin. The
sight of the military restored hope to those who
fled, and revenge took place of fear. They in-
spired the soldiers with the same sentiment.
Languor was changed to ardour, the slow step
converted to a speedy pace, while the hollow
murmur of the multitude, inspired 1by one feel-
ing, and that deadly, filled the air, drowning

THE LAST MAN. 180T

the clang of arms and sound of music. Adrian
perceived the change, arid feared that it would
be difficult to prevent them from wreaking their
utmost fury on the Irish. He rode through the
lines, charging the officers to restrain the troops,
exhorting the soldiers, restoring order, and
quieting in some degree the violent agitation
that swelled every bosom.

We first came upon a few stragglers of the
Irish at St. Albans. They retreated, and, join-
ing others of their companions, still fell back,
till they reached the main body. Tidings of an
armed and regular opposition recalled them to a
sort of order. They made Buckingham their
head-quarters, and scouts were sent out to ascer-
tain our situation. We remained for the night
at Luton. In the morning a simultaneous move-
ment caused us each to advance. It was early
dawn, and the air, impregnated with freshest
odour, seemed in idle mockery to play with our
banners, and bore onwards towards the enemy
the music of the bands, the neighings of the
o 3

298 THE LAST MAN.

horses, and regular step of the infantry. The
first sound of martial instruments that came
upon our undisciplined foe, inspired surprise, not
unmingled with dread. It spoke of other days,
of days of concord and order ; it was associated
with times when plague was not, and man lived
beyond the shadow of imminent fate. The pause
was momentary. Soon we heard their disorderly
clamour, the barbarian shouts, the untimed step
of thousands coming on in disarray. Their
troops now came pouring on us from the open
country or narrow lanes ; a large extent of un-
enclosed fields lay between us ; we advanced to
the middle of this, and then made a halt:
being somewhat on superior ground, we could
discern the space they covered. When their
leaders perceived us drawn out in opposition,
they also gave the word to halt, and endeavoured
to form their men into some imitation of mihtary
discipline. The first ranks had muskets ; some
were mounted, but their arms were such as they
had seized during their advance, their horses

THE LAST MAN. 299

those they had taken from the peasantry ; there
was no uniformity, and Httle obedience, but
their shouts and wild gestures sho^ved the un-
tamed spirit that inspired them. Our soldiers
received the word, and advanced to quickest
time, but in perfect order : their uniform dresses,
the gleam of their polished arms, their silence,
and looks of sullen hate, were more appalHng than
the savage clamour of our innumerous foe. Thus
coming nearer and nearer each other, the howls
and shouts of the Irish increased ; the English
proceeded in obedience to their officers, until
they came near enough to distinguish the faces
of their enemies ; the sight inspired them with
fury: with one cry, that rent heaven and was
re-echoed by the furthest lines, they rushed on ;
they disdained the use of the bullet, but with
fixed bayonet dashed among the opposing foe,
while the ranks opening at intervals, the match-
men lighted the cannon, whose deafening roar
and Winding smoke filled up the horror of the
scene.

300 THE LAST MA:N.

I was beside Adrian ; a moment before he had
again given the word to halt, and had remained
a few yards distant from us in deep meditation :
he was forming swiftly his plan of action, to pre-
vent the effusion of blood; the noise of cannon,
the sudden rush of the troops, and yell of the foe,
startled him : with flashing eyes he exclaimed,
" Not one of these must perish !" and plunging
the rowels into his horse's sides, he dashed be-
tween the conflicting bands. We, his staff, fol-
lowed him to surround and protect him ; obeying
his signal, however, we fell back somewhat. The
soldiery perceiving him, paused in their onset ;
he did not swerve from the bullets that passed
near him, but rode immediately between the
opposing lines. Silence succeeded to clamour ;
about fifty men lay on the ground dying or dead.
Adrian raised his sword in act to speak : " By
whose command," he cried, addressing his own
troops, '' do you advance ? Who ordered your
attack ? Fall back ; these misguided men shall
not be slaughtered, while I am your general.

THE LAST MAN. 301

Sheath your weapons; these are your brothers,
commit not fratricide ; soon the plague will not
leave one for you to glut your revenge upon:
will you be more pitiless than pestilence ? As
you honour me — as you worship God, in whose
image those also are created — as your children
and friends are dear to you, — shed not a drop
of precious human blood."

He spoke with outstretched hand and winning
voice, and then turning to our invaders, with a
severe brow, he commanded them to lay down
their arms : " Do you think," he said, " that
because we are wasted by plague, you can over-
come us; the plague is also among you, and
when ye are vanquished by famine and disease,
the ghosts of those you have murdered will arise
to bid you not hope in death. Lay down your
arms, barbarous and cruel men — men whose
hands are stained with the blood of the innocent,
whose souls are weighed down by the orphan's
cry ! We shall conquer, for the right is on
our side ; already your cheeks are pale — the

302 THE LAST MAS.

weapons fall from your nerveless grasp. Lay
down your arras, fellow men ! brethren ! Par-
don, succour, and brotherly love await your
repentance. You are dear to us, because you
wear the frail shape of humanity; each one
among you will find a friend and host among
these forces. Shall man be the enemy of man,
while plague, the foe to all, even now is above
us, triumphing in our butchery, more cruel than
her own ?"*'

Each army paused. On our side the soldiers
grasped their arms firmly, and looked with stern
glances on the foe. These had not thrown down
their weapons, more from fear than the spirit of
contest ; they looked at each other, each wishing
to follow some example given him, — but they
had no leader. Adrian threw himself from his
horse, and approaching one of those just slain :
" He was a man,^' he cried, " and he is dead.
O quickly bind up the wounds of the fallen —
let not one die; let not one more soul escape
through your merciless gashes, to relate before

THE LAST MAN. 303

the throne of God the tale of fratricide; bind up
their wounds— restore them to their friends.
Cast away the hearts of tigers that burn in your
breasts; throw down those tools of cruelty and
hate ; in this pause of exterminating destiny, let
each man be brother, guardian, and stay to the
other. Away with those blood-stained arms, and
hasten some of you to bind up these wounds."

As he spoke, he knelt on the ground, and
raised in his arms a man from whose side the
warm tide of life gushed — the poor wretch
gasped — so still had either host become, that
his moans were distinctly heard, and every heart,
late fiercely bent on universal massacre, now
beat anxiously in hope and fear for the fate of
this one man. Adrian tore off his military
scarf and bound it round the sufferer — it was
too late — the man heaved a deep sigh, his head
fell back, his limbs lost their sustaining power.
— " He is dead !" said Adrian, as the corpse
fell from his arms on the ground, and he bowed
his head in sorrow and awe. The fate of the

304 THE LAST MAN.

world seemed bound up in the death of this
single man. On either side the bands threw
down their arms, even the veterans wept, and our
party held out their hands to their foes, while
a gush of love and deepest amity filled every
heart. The two forces mingling, unarmed and
hand in hand, talking only how each might
assist the other, the adversaries conjoined ; each
repenting, the one side their former cruelties,
the other their late violence, they obeyed the or-
ders of the General to proceed towards London.

Adrian was obliged to exert his utmost pru-
dence, first to allay the discord, and then to
provide for the multitude of the invaders.
They were marched to various parts of the
southern counties, quartered in deserted villages,
■ — SL part were sent back to their own island,
while the season of winter so far revived our
energy, that the passes of the country were de-
fended, and any increase of numbers prohibited.

On this occasion Adrian and Idris met after
a separation of nearly a year. Adrian had been

THE LAST MAN. 305

occupied in fulfilling a laborious and painful
task. He had been familiar with every species
of human misery, and had for ever found his
powers inadequate, his aid of small avail. Yet
the purpose of his soul, his energy and ardent
resolution, prevented any re-action of sorrow.
He seemed born anew, and virtue, more potent
than Medean alchemy, endued him with health
and strength. Idris hardly recognized the fra-
gile being, whose form had seemed to bend even
to the summer breeze, in the energetic man,
whose very excess of sensibility rendered him
more capable of fulfilling his station of pilot in
storm-tossed England.

It was not thus with Idris. She was un-
complaining ; but the very soul of fear had taken
its seat in her heart. She had grown thin and
pale, her eyes filled with involuntary tears, her
voice was broken and low. She tried to throw
a veil over the change which she knew her bro-
ther must observe in her, but the effort was
ineffectual ; and when alone with him, with a

306 THE LAST MAN.

burst of irrepressible grief she gave vent to her
apprehensions and sorrow. She described in
vivid terms the ceaseless care that with still re-
newing hunger ate into her soul ; she compared
this gnawing of sleepless expectation of evil, to
the vulture that fed on the heart of Prometheus ;
under the influence of this eternal excitement, and
of the interminable struggles she endured to com-
bat and conceal it, she felt, she said, as if all the
wheels and springs of the animal machine
worked at double rate, and were fast consuming
themselves. Sleep was not sleep, for her waking
thoughts, bridled by some remains of reason, and
by the sight of her children happy and in health,
were then transformed to wild dreams, all her
terrors were realized, all her fears received their
dread fulfilment. To this state there was no
hope, no alleviation, unless the grave should
quickly receive its destined prey, and she be per-
mitted to die, before she experienced a thousand
living deaths in the loss of those she loved.
Fearing to give me pain, she hid as best she could

THE LAST MAN. B07

the excess of her wretchedness, but meeting thus
her brother after a long absence, she could not
restrain the expression of her woe, but with all
the vividness of imagination with which misery
is always replete, she poured out the emotions
of her heart to her beloved and sympathizing
Adrian.

Her present visit to London tended to augment
her state of inquietude, by shewing in its utmost
extent the ravages occasioned by pestilence. It
hardly preserved the appearance of an inhabited
city ; grass sprung up thick in the streets ; the
squares were weed- grown, the houses were shut
up, while silence and loneliness characterized
the busiest parts of the town. Yet in the midst
of desolation Adrian had preserved order ; and
each one continued to live according to law and
custom — human institutions thus surviving as
it were divine ones, and while the decree of
population was abrogated, property continued
sacred. It was a melancholy reflection ; and in
spite of the diminution of evil produced, it

308 THE LAST MAN.

Struck on the heart as a wretched mockery.
All idea of resort for pleasure, of theatres and
festivals had passed away. " Next summer,"
said Adrian as we parted on our return to
Windsor, ^^ will decide the fate of the human
race. I shall not pause in my exertions until
that time ; but, if plague revives with the coming
year, all contest with her must cease, and our
only occupation be the choice of a grave."

I must not forget one incident that occurred
during this visit to London. The visits of
Merrival to Windsor, before frequent, had sud-
denly ceased. At this time where but a hair's
line separated the living from the dead, I feared
that our friend had become a victim to the all-
embracing evil. On this occasion I went, dread-
ing the worst, to his dwelhng, to see if I could
be of any service to those of his family who
might have survived. The house was deserted,
and had been one of those assigned to the in-
vading strangers quartered in London. I saw
his astronomical instruments put to strange uses,

THE LAST aiAN. 309

his globes defaced, his papers covered with ab-
struse calculations destroyed. The neighbours
could tell me little, till I lighted on a poor wo-
man who acted as nurse in these perilous
times. She told me that all the family were
dead, except Merrival himself, who had gone
mad — mad, she called it, yet on questioning
her further, it appeared that he was possessed
only by the delirium of excessive grief. This
old man, tottering on the edge of the grave,
and prolonging his prospect through millions
of calculated years, — this visionary who had
not seen starvation in the wasted forms of
his wife and children, or plague in the hor-
rible sights and sounds that surrounded him
— this astronomer, apparently dead on earth,
and living only in the motion of the spheres
-cloved his family with unapparent but in-
tense affection. Through long habit they had
become a part of himself ; his want of worldly
knowledge, his absence of mind and infant
guilelessness, made him utterly dependent on

310 THE LAST MAN.

them. It was not till one of them died that he
perceived their danger; one by one they were
carried off by pestilence ; and his wife, his help-
mate and supporter, more necessary to him than
his own limbs and frame, which had hardly
been taught the lesson of self-preservation, the
kind companion whose voice always spoke peace
to him, closed her eyes in death. The old man
felt the svstem of universal nature w hich he had
so long studied and adored, slide from under
him, and he stood among the dead, and lifted
his voice in curses. — No wonder that the at-
tendant should interpret as phrensy the harrow-
ing maledictions of the grief-struck old man.

I had commenced my search late in the day,
a November day, that closed in early with patter-
ing rain and melancholy wind. As I turned from
the door, I saw Merrival, or rather the shadow
of Merrival, attenuated and wild, pass me, and
sit on the steps of his home. The breeze scat-
tered the grey locks on his temples, the rain
drenched his uncovered head, he sat hiding his

THE LAST MAN. 311

face in his withered hands. I pressed his
shoulder to awaken his attention, but he did
not alter his position. " Merrival," I said,
" it is long since we have seen you — you must
return to Windsor with me — Lady Idris desires
to see you, you will not refuse her request —
come home with me."

He replied in a hollow voice, " Why deceive
a helpless old man, why talk hypocritically to
one half crazed ? Windsor is not my home ; my
true home I have found ; the home that the
Creator has prepared for me."

His accent of bitter scorn thrilled me — *' Do
not tempt me to speak,"" he continued, "my
words would scare you — in an universe of cow-
ards I dare think — among the church-yard tombs
— among the victims of His merciless tyranny I
dare reproach the Supreme Evil. How can he
punish me ? Let him bare his arm and transfix
me with lightning — this is also one of his at-
tributes"— and the old man laughed.

He rose, and I followed him through the rain

312 THE LAST MAN.

to a neighbouring church-yard — he threw him-
self on the wet earth. "Here they are," he
cried, " beautiful creatures — breathing, speak-
ing, loving creatures. She who by day and
night cherished the age-worn lover of her youth
— they, parts of my flesh, my children — here
they are: call them, scream their names through
the night ; they will not answer I" He clung to
the little heaps that marked the graves. " I
ask but one thing ; I do not fear His hell, for
I have it here ; I do not desire His heaven, let
me but die and be laid beside them ; let me but,
when I lie dead, feel my flesh as it moulders,
mingle with theirs. Promise," and he raised
himself painfully, and seized my arm, " promise
to bury me with them."

" So God help me and mine as I promise,"
I replied, " on one condition : return with me
to Windsor."

'^ To Windsor !" he cried with a shriek,
''Never ! — from this place I never go — my bones,
my flesh, I myself, are already buried here, and

THE L'.r . . >:. 313

what you see of me is corrupted clay like them.
I will lie here, and cling here, till rain, and hail,
and lightning and storm, ruining on me, make
me one in substance with them below."

In a few words I must conclude this tragedy.
I was obliged to leave London, and Adrian un-
dertook to watch over him ; the task was soon
fulfilled ; age, grief, and inclement weather,
all united to hush his sorrows, and bring repose
to ills heart, whose beats were agony. He died
embracing the sod, which was piled above his
breast, when he was placed beside the beings
whom he regretted with such wild despair.

I returned to Windsor at the wish of Idris,
who seemed to think that there was greater
safety for her children at that spot ; and because,
once having taken on me the guardianship of
ihe district, I would not de-ert it while an in-
habitant survived. I went also to act in con-
formity with Adrian's plans, which was to con-
gregate in masses what remained of the popula-
tion ; for he possessed the conviction that it

VOL. II. p

314 THE LAST MAN.

was only through the benevolent and social
virtues that any safety was to be hoped for
the remnant of mankind^

It was a melancholy thing to return to this
spot so dear to us, as the scene of a happiness
rarely before enjoyed, here to mark the extinction
of our species, and trace the deep uneraseable
footsteps of disease over the fertile and che-
rished soil. The aspect of the country had
so far changed, that it had been impossible to
enter on the task of sowing seed, and other
autumnal labours. That season was now gone ;
and winter had set in with sudden and un-
usual severity. Alternate frosts and thaws
succeeding to floods, rendered the country im-
passable. Heavy falls of snow gave an arctic
appearance to the scenery ; the roofs of the
houses peeped from the white mass ; the lowly
cot and stately mansion, alike deserted, were
blocked up, their thresholds uncleared ; the win-
dows were broken by the hail, while the preva-
lence of a north-east wind rendered out-door

THE LAST MAN. 315

exertions extremely painful. The altered state
of society made these accidents of nature, sources
of real misery. The luxury of command and
the attentions of servitude were lost. It is
true that the necessaries of life were assembled
in such quantities, as to supply to superfluity
the wants of the diminished population ; but
still much labour was required to arrange these,
as it were, raw materials ; and depressed by
sickness, and fearful of the future, we had not
energy to enter boldly and decidedly on any
system.

I can speak for myself — want of energy was
not my failing. The intense life that quickened
my pulses, and animated my frame, had the
effect, not of drawing me into the mazes of
active life, but of exalting my lowliness, and of
bestowing majestic proportions on insignificant
objects — T could have lived the life of a peasant
in the same way — my trifling occupations weie
swelled into important pursuits; my affections
were impetuous and engrossing passions, and
p2 -

316 THE LAST MAN.

nature with all her changes was Invested in
divine attributes. The very spirit of the Greek
mythology inhabited my heart ; I deified the
uplands, glades, and streams, I

Had sight of Proteus coming from the sea ;
And heard old Triton blow his wreathed horn.*

Strange, that while the earth preserved her
monotonous course, I dwelt with ever-renew-
ing wonder on her antique laws, and now
that with excentric wheel she rushed into an
untried path, I should feel this spirit fade; I
struggled with despondency and weariness,
but like a fog, they choked me. Perhaps, after
the labours and stupendous excitement of the
past summer, the calm of winter and the almost
menial toils it brought with it, were by natural
re-action doubly irksome. It was not the grasp-
ing passion of the preceding year, which gave
life and individuality to each moment — it was

♦ Wordsworth.

THE LAST MAN. 317

not the aching pangs induced by the distresses
of the times. The utter inutility that had at-
tended all my exertions took from them their
usual effects of exhilaration, and despair rendered
abortive the balm of self applause — I longed to
return to my old occupations, but of what
use were they ? To read were futile — to write,
vanity indeed. The earth, late wide circus for
the display of dignified exploits, vast theatre for
amagnificent drama, now presented a vacant space,
an empty stage — for actor or spectator there
was no longer aught to say or hear.

Our little town of Windsor, in which the sur-
vivors from the neighbouring counties were
chiefly assembled, wore a melancholy aspect.
Its streets were blocked up with snow — the few
passengers seemed palsied, and frozen by the
ungenial visitation of winter. To escape these
evils was the aim and scope of all our exer-
tions. Families late devoted to exalting and
refined pursuits, rich, blooming, and young,
with diminished numbers and care-fraught
p 3

313 THE LAST MAN.

hearts, huddled over a fire, grown selfish
and grovelling through suffering. 'Without the
aid of servants, it was necessary to discharge
all household duties; hands unused to such
labour must knead the bread, or in the absence
of ilour, the statesmen or perfumed courtier
must undertake the butcher s office. Poor and
rich were now equal, or rather the poor were
the superior, since they entered on such tasks
with alacrity and experience ; while ignorance,
inaptitude, and habits of repose, rendered them
fatiguing to the luxurious, galling to the
proud, disgustful to all whose minds, bent on
intellectual improvement, held it their dearest
privilege to be exempt from attending to mere
animal wants.

But in every change goodness and affection
can find field for exertion and display. Among
some these changes produced a devotion and
sacrifice of self at once graceful and heroic. It
was a sight for the lovers of the human race to
enjoy ; to behold, as in ancient times, the patri-

THE LAST MAN. S19

arclial modes in which the variety of kindred
and friendship fulfilled their duteous and kindly
offices. Youths, nobles of the land, performed
for the sake of mother or sister, the services of
menials with amiable cheerfulness. They went
to the river to break the ice, and draw water :
they assembled on foraging expeditions, or axe
in hand felled the trees for fuel. The females
received them on their return with the simple
and affectionate welcome known before only to
the lowly cottage— a clean hearth and bright
fire ; the supper ready cooked by beloved hands ;
gratitude for the provision for to-morrow's meal:
strange enjoyments for the high-born English,
yet they were now dieir sole, hard earned,
and dearly prized luxuries.

None was more conspicuous for this graceful
submission to circumstances, noble humility, and
ingenious fancy to adorn such acts with romantic
colouring, than our own Clara. She saw my
despondency, and the aching cares of Idris.
Her perpetual study was to relieve us from

320 THE LAST MAN.

labour and to spread ease and even elegance over
our altered mode of life. We still had some at-
tendants spared by disease, and warmly attached
to us. But Clara was jealous of their services ;
she would be sole handmaid of Idris, sole minis-
ter to the wants of her little cousins ; nothing
gave her so much pleasure as our employing her
in this way; she went beyond our desires, earnest,
diligent, and unwearied, —

Abra was ready ere we called her name,
And though we called another, Abra came.*

It was my task each day to visit the various
families assembled in our town, and when the
weather permitted, I was glad to prolong my
ride, and to muse in solitude over every
changeful appearance of our destiny, endeavour-
ing to gather lessons for the future from the
experience of the past. The impatience with
which, while in society, the ills that afflicted my
species inspired me, were softened by loneliness,

• Prior's "Solomon."

THE LAST MAN. ^ 321

when individual suffering was merged in the
general calamity, strange to say, less afflicting
to contemplate. Thus often, pushing my way
with difficulty through the narrow snow-blocked
town, I crossed the bridge and passed through
Eton. No youtliful congregation of gallant-
hearted boys thronged the portal of the college ;
sad silence pervaded the busy school-room and
noisy playground. I extended my ride towards
Salt Hill, on every side impeded by the snow.
Were those the fertile fields I loved — was that the
interchange of gentle upland and cultivated dale,
once covered with waving corn, diversified by
stately trees, watered by the meandering Thames.'^
One sheet of white covered it, while bitter recol-
lection told me that cold as the winter-clothed
earth, were the hearts of the inhabitants- I met
troops of horses, herds of cattle, flocks of sheep,
wandering at will ; here throwing down a hay-
rick, and nestling from cold in its heart, which
afforded them shelter and food — there having
taken possession of a vacant cottage.

THE LAST MAN.

Once on a frosty day, pushed on by restless
unsatisfying reflections, I sought a favourite haunt,
a little wood not far distant from Salt Hill. A
bubbling spring prattles over stones on one side,
and a plantation of a few elms and beeches, hardly
deserve, and yet continue the name of wood. This
spot had for me peculiar charms. It had been a
favourite resort of Adrian; it was secluded ; and
he often said that in boyhood, his happiest hours
were spent here ; having escaped the stately bond-
age of his mother, he sat on the rough hewn steps
that led to the spring, nowreadinga favourite book,
now musing, with speculation beyond his years,
on the still unravelled skein of morals or meta-
physics. A melancholy foreboding assured me
that I should never see this place more ; so with
careful thought, I noted each tree, every winding
of the streamlet and irregularity of the soil,
that I might better call up its idea in absence.
A robin red-breast dropt from the frosty branches
of the trees, upon the congealed rivulet ; its pant-
ing breast and half-closed eyes shewed that it was

THE LAST MAN.

dying: a hawk appeared in the air; sudden
fear seized the little creature ; it exerted its last
strength, throwing itself on its back, raising its
talons in impotent defence against its powerful
enemy. I took it up and placed it in my breast.
I fed it with a few crumbs from a biscuit ; by
degrees it revived ; its warm fluttering heart beat
against me ; I cannot tell why I detail this
trifling incident — but the scene is still before me ;
the snow- clad fields seen through the silvered
trunks of the beeches, — the brook, in days of
happiness alive with sparkling waters, now
choked by ice — the leafless trees fantastically
dressed in hoar frost — the shapes of summer
leaves imaged by winter's frozen hand on the
hard ground — the dusky sky, drear cold,
and unbroken silence — while close in my
bosom, my feathered nursling lay warm, and
safe, speaking its content with a light chirp —
painful reflections thronged, stirring my brain
with wild commotion — cold and death-like as the
snowy fields was all earth — misery-stricken the

324 THE LAST MAN.

life-tide of the inhabitants — why should I
oppose the cataract of destruction that swept us
away ? — why string my nerves and renew my
wearied efforts — ah, why ? But that my firm
courage and cheerful exertions might shelter the
dear mate, whom I chose in the spring of my
life ; though the throbbings of my heart be re-
plete with pain, though my hopes for the future
are chill, still while your dear head, my gentlest
love, can repose in peace on that heart, and while
you derive from its fostering care, comfort, and
hope, my struggles shall not cease, — I will not
call myself altogether vanquished.

One fine February day, when the sun had re-
assumed some of its genial power, I walked in
the forest with my family. It was one of those
lovely winter-days which assert the capacity of
nature to bestow beauty on barrenness. The
leafless trees spread their fibrous branches
against the pure sky; their intricate and pervious
tracery resembled delicate sea-M^eed; the deer
were turning up the snow in search of the hidden

THE LAST MAN. 325

grass ; the white w^s made intensely dazzhng by
the sun, and trunks of the trees, rendered more
conspicuous by the loss of preponderating fo-
liage, gathered around like the labyrinthine co-
lumns of a vast temple; it was impossible not to
receive pleasure from the sight of these things.
Our children, freed from the bondage of winter,
bounded before us ; pursuing the deer, or rous-
ing the pheasants and partridges from their
coverts. Idris leant on my arm ; her sadness
yielded to the present sense of pleasure. We
met other families on the Long Walk, enjoying
like ourselves the return of the genial season.
At once, I seemed to awake ; I cast off the
clinging sloth of the past months ; earth assumed
a new appearance, and my view of the future was
suddenly made clear. I exclaimed, •' I have
now found out the secret !"

" What secret ?'"

In answer to this question, I described our
gloomy winter-life, our sordid cares, our menial
labours : — " This northern country,'" I said, " is

VOL. II. Q,

326 THE LAST MAN.

no place for our diminished race. When man-
kind were few, it was not here that they battled
with the powerful agents of nature, and were
enabled to cover the globe with offspring. We
must seek some natural Paradise, some garden
of the earth, where our simple wants may be
easily supplied, and the enjoyment of a delicious
climate compensate for the social pleasures we
have lost. If we survive this coming summer,
I will not spend the ensuing winter in England ;
neither I nor any of us."

I spoke without much heed, and the very
conclusion of what I said brought with it other
thoughts. Should we, any of us, survive the
coming summer? I saw the brow of Idris
clouded ; I again felt, that we were enchained to
the car of fate, over whose coursers we had no
control. We could no longer say. This we will do,
and this we will leave undone. A mightier power
than the human was at hand to destroy our plans
or to achieve the work we avoided. It were mad-
ness to calculate upon another winter This was

THE LAST MAN. J327

our last. The coming summer was the extreme
end of our vista ; and, when we arrived there,
instead of a continuation of the long road, a
gulph yawned, into which we must of force be
precipitated. The last blessing of humanity
was wrested from us ; we might no longer hope.
Can the madman, as he clanks his chains, hope.^
Can the wretch, led to the scaffold, who when
he lays his head on the block, marks the double
shadow of himself and the executioner, whose
uplifted arm bears the axe, hope ? Can the
ship-wrecked mariner, who spent with swimming,
hears close behind the splashing waters divided
by a shark which pursues him through the At-
lantic, hope ? Such hope as theirs, we also may
entertain !

Old fable tells us, that this gentle spirit sprung
from the box of Pandora, else crammed with
evils ; but these were unseen and null, while all
admired the inspiriting loveliness of young Hope;
each man's heart became her home; she \^ as
enthroned sovereign of our lives, here and here-

528 THE LAST MAN.

after ; she was deified and worshipped, declared

incorruptible and everlasting. But like all other

gifts of the Creator to Man, she is mortal ; her

life has attained its last hour. We have watched

over her ; nursed her flickering existence; now

she has fallen at once from youth to decrepitude,

from health to immedicinable disease ; even as

we spend ourselves in struggles for her recovery,

she dies; to all nations the voice goes forth,

Hope is dead ! We are but mourners in the

funeral train, and what immortal essence or

perishable creation will refuse to make one in the

sad procession that attends to its grave the dead

comforter of humanity ^

Does not the sun call in his light ? and day
Like a thin exhalation raelt away —
Both wrapping up their beams in clouds to be
Themselves close mourners at thii obsequie.*

* Cleveland's Poems.

EKD OF VOL. II.

Ijliac-kell, Arvowsmith, and Hodges, FL'ct-strcct, Londun.

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